


All Roads Lead to Rome

by diadema



Series: The Eternal City Affair [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Attempted Historical Accuracy, Character Study, F/M, Internal Canon Consistency, Missing Scenes, Mission Fic, Mutual Pining, My First Fanfic, POV Multiple, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2018-12-19 13:55:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11899161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diadema/pseuds/diadema
Summary: A "negative space" interpretation of the film. It's the same story, told primarily through its missing moments. :)Multiple POV character studies, Gallya-centric (with plenty of Solo!), beginning with Gaby's recruitment to MI6 and culminating in the team's arrival in Rome.This is East meets West meets the Chop Shop's Best.





	1. Tinker Teller Sleeper Spy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaby has an unexpected visitor at the garage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my very first fanfic, so I hope you'll excuse any growing pains while I figure this out. :) I'm trying my best for historical accuracy and to keep everything consistent with the events and dialogue of the film. Any research notes will be at the bottom if you're interested!
> 
> Thank you for reading: it's a gift. :)

**Wednesday, September 13, 1961**

After twenty-two years in East Germany, the mechanic claims to have seen it all. _Or at least_ , she would shrug, _everything that’s left_.

It is not arrogance, but rather, a scathing pragmatism that makes her so sure. Gaby’s universe is rapidly shrinking before her eyes and she is dangerously helpless to stop it. Her stomach curdles with every bitter reminder.

She sweeps her gaze over the scores of abandoned apartments and the rows and rows of bricked and boarded windows. The buildings here bear their wounds gracelessly—scarred, but still standing. They are survivors. Just like their inhabitants.

Despite war and occupation, her city is unbroken.

_Or at least it used to be._

Gaby grits her teeth in frustration. The Iron Curtain looms beside her like a second shadow. It dogs her tirelessly, always just over her shoulder, just out of reach. A constant threat, a taunting promise. It is now as much a part of her as her balletic grace and the faint scent of motor oil on her skin.

She chokes down the roiling surge of anger and keeps on driving.

It has been exactly one month since that fateful “Barbed Wire Sunday”. One month since the people of Berlin had awoken to a closed border, a sundered city, a treacherous expanse of concrete and wire.

One month since Gaby Schmidt found herself on the wrong side of a wall.

 

* * *

 

Gaby wills herself to look away from the Iron Curtain. She can feel the hysteria rising, cold and choking, the fear bleeding into the corners of her mind. _Now is not the time_ , she gasps, as her fingers clench, white-knuckled, against the steering wheel.

Too late. The damage is already done.

The hurricane of headlines and rumors tear unbidden through her mind as she spirals further and further out of control:

_A planned ‘death strip’..._

_Buried mines and trip-wire machine guns…_

_A tragic, three-story leap of faith…_

_Orders to shoot on sight..._

_A body floating in the canal…_

Something primal snaps within her. Her pupils are blown, her breathing shallow and rapid-fire. Her hands are numb, heavy and bloodless, stinging with thousands of fiery pin-pricks.

Gaby is lost.

She is drunk on adrenaline and something far more menacing than panic. It is not desperation. It is a challenge, a goading nihilism that spurs her onwards.

It is the only thing she can focus on: a siren song thrumming in her ears. Her head swims with the temptation. _Maybe freedom lies over the Wall… or maybe just on the other side of the road_. Her car veers to the side as the Sirens’ purr their approval. She lets her mind go blank and waits for the—

_“Survival is a long game, Gabriella!”_

Her father’s words jolt the mechanic from her trance. She swerves back into her lane and the oncoming traffic roars by, a seemingly endless parade of blaring horns and shouted curses. Gaby doesn’t hear any of it.

All she can think about is her father. _Why him? Why now?_ He was just a memory. A dusty collection of photographs. A ghost that hasn’t haunted her in years.

 _The long game_.

He had insisted that his work was a necessary evil, that what was keeping them alive _now_ would be what saved them _later_ . At a time when _today_ seemed tenuous at best, it seemed a fool’s errand to chase after tomorrow. But her father continued to stake their future, their fortune, their very lives on “Someday”.

Sixteen years later and she’s still waiting.

She doesn’t know where her father is or whether he’s even alive. _Dreamers die a thousand deaths_ , she’d learned, and stamped out the flickering hope before it could burn her. It was protective. It was practical.

It wasn’t enough.

Gaby will never admit it, but deep down, there’s still a starry-eyed, six-year-old girl believing her father will find his way back to her.

She releases a deep, shuddering breath and returns her focus to the road. She wipes her sweaty palms on her coveralls and relaxes her grip on the wheel. The shock of her near-miss is wearing off, but she is still a live wire of nervous energy. _Now is not the time_ , she repeats.

She never used to be like this.

Gaby is an exercise in contradiction, a case study in measured recklessness. Clever. Capable. The consummate survivor. A woman who learned long ago to hide in plain sight and adapt, no matter what the situation called for.

Gaby has been on her own the last four years and it’s a miracle that she has stayed on the razor’s edge this long. She can’t afford any more missteps.

But, with each passing, powerless day behind the Iron Curtain, the destructive impulses are getting harder and harder to ignore.

Gaby parks and lets the relief wash over her. The garage beckons to her like an old friend, promising a blessed respite from the world. There’s something healing about the physicality of her work: a certain satisfaction that comes from a hard day’s labor (even if it’s not entirely an honest one’s).

It soothes her battered soul in the same ways that ballet does. Gaby likes to think of the garage as just another stage, another company to train with. There’s an innate hierarchy, a rhythm, an appreciation for the moving parts.

_The purest form of surrender._

The garage is her safe haven, her salvation, her _home_. The only place where she still has any sense of control. And, after the morning she’s had, Gaby can’t wait to reclaim it.

She’ll have to keep waiting.

Maybe Gaby _hasn’t_ seen everything after all.

 

* * *

 

A man, a tank, and a Trabant await her like the setup of some cosmic joke. They’re in various states of disrepair: the man is impeccably-dressed, dishevelled in a rakish sort of way. He holds a bag of ice against his head and smiles ruefully before extending his hand.

“Miss Schmidt, the name’s Waverly. I was rather hoping you’d be in today.”

 _British_ , she notes with a start. Westerners are few and far between, even fewer since the Wall went up. It puts her on alert.

“And why’s that?”

“I heard you’re the best mechanic this side of the Wall.” He smiles, gestures to the peculiar tableau around him. “I wouldn’t dream of entrusting anyone less.”

Gaby is unmoved by flattery. “I’m sure there’s a story behind all this.”

“Not a very good one, I’m afraid.” He shrugs in apology. “I got careless. Took one look at the tank and the rest is a bit of a blur.”

Waverly winces at the mangled remains of the Trabant and sighs. Were he wearing a cap, Gaby is convinced he’d remove it. “Poor, young Trabi never stood a chance.”

She bites back a smile. The man has a disarming way about him, but Gaby isn’t ready to let her guard down. “You seem to have come out all right.”

“Ah, well, I never said I was driving the Trabant.”

His face is the picture of innocence save for the droll spark in his eyes. Understanding dawns on her and Gaby _does_ smile at that. A shocked laugh escapes her.

“You _stole_ a tank?”

“I prefer the term ‘commandeered’, but yes, you could say that.” Waverly pats the side of the vehicle fondly. “Not quite a Centurion, I admit, but the T-34 does have its merits.”

Gaby hums in response. She’s grudgingly impressed. So, the Englishman knew his tanks and could drive them too. She is about to ask him about it when she comes to her senses. The question dies on her lips.

“This can’t be here. You need to leave.”

She’s already scanning around her for any sign of the _polizei,_ the _Stasi_ , civilians who might inform if they saw her. Gaby’s eyes dart to her car. She couldn’t be here when they came. She has to—

“There’s no need to worry, Miss Schmidt. You’re safe.”

Waverly cuts off her protests with a wave of his hand. “Like I said, _commandeered_. Anyone looking for trouble will have to answer to me.”

“And who are you exactly?”

“The enemy of your enemy.” He smiles. Infuriatingly enigmatic. “I won’t call myself your friend just yet, but I think we’ll get there eventually.”

Gaby scoffs and motions to the tank. “Care to explain what this is really about then?”

“I hope you’ll forgive all the theatrics, but you can’t blame me for wanting to make an impression.” He smiles archly at her. Gaby eyes him warily and starts edging towards her car. She keeps a wrench under the driver’s seat. It might buy her some time if she needs to make a run for it.

“And, as I mentioned earlier, I’ve been terribly anxious to make your acquaintance… Miss Teller.”

“This is about my father?” She’s not sure how she manages to get the words out when her heart is so firmly lodged in her throat.

“It’s about the both of you.” Waverly appraises her critically. Before the mechanic decides to bolt, he continues on. “But first things first: have you ever been to London?”

He knows she hasn’t, and, judging by the glare he receives in return, she’s fully aware of the fact. “Would you like to?”

Gaby’s breath catches in her throat. It takes every ounce of self-restraint she has to keep her face neutral, but she can’t mask the waver in her voice. “You think you can get me over the Wall?”

“Oh, I can do much more than that. I can offer you amnesty, a home anywhere in the West, a new _identity_ , if that’s what you’re after.” He lowers his voice and Gaby has to lean in to catch his next words. “And while you’re still in Berlin, I can extend my not inconsiderable influence to protect you.”

He keeps his eyes trained on the mechanic’s and scrutinizes every warring expression on her face. Shock, hope, defiance, and more than a little bit of fear. Waverly keeps his voice soft, smooth and reassuring. Enticing. “No more ‘inquiries’ into your _particular_ line of work. No unexpected visitors in your flat. How would that sound to you?”

His words hang heavy in the air: a dizzying enchantment that Gaby doesn’t dare break. Under Waverly’s spell, she can envision a new life for herself, one she had forbidden herself to dream about before. Her stolen glimpse of freedom sings through her veins, roars in her ears.

It is intoxicating.

It is an illusion.

This could all be a cruel joke. A test. A trap. And yet… if this _were_ true, what was she willing to do for it? Her stomach lurches sickeningly. What _wouldn’t_ she do?

“And what is it you want from me?”

“All I ask is for your cooperation,” he answers, and then, almost as an afterthought, “and your patience. But you can start by answering some questions for me. When was the last time you were in contact with your father?”

“Not since the war ended.”

“I had feared as much.” He sighs, troubled. “And were you aware of Udo’s… contributions during that time?”

Gaby had been much too young to understand or be entrusted with the particulars. She shrugs. “He was a scientist.”

“A rocket scientist. Perhaps the best in the world.” He pauses to gauge her reaction. “It’s no wonder the US took such a vested interest in him.”

“The Americans?” She pins sixteen years of dread and longing on those two words.

“From what I gather, he’s been leading their nuclear research program. With considerable success too, I might add.” He starts polishing his glasses. “It’s all the more troubling, then, that he’s gone missing.”

“You don’t think he left on his own.” It’s not a question. If he had, he would have reached out to her by now. He _would_ have…

_Wouldn’t he?_

A childish insecurity rages within her. In a moment, she is six-years-old again, wondering what she could have done to make him leave.

“Unfortunately, no. While he may try to contact you yet, the natural conclusion is that someone has gotten to him first. And that, my dear, makes you particularly valuable.”

“Or vulnerable.”

For the mechanic’s sake, he wishes he could dismiss it as semantics. But he can’t. It pains him. “That would appear to be the case.”

“So, I’m either bait to find him or leverage to use against him.” Her eyes burn into the Brit’s, daring him to contradict her. “That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?”

Waverly nods. He’s becoming more and more impressed with Gaby by the minute. Bright, talented, a little rough around the edges, maybe, but with enough training, he knows she could be— _ah_. He’s getting ahead of himself. _One step at a time._

“I’m here to offer you a third option. More of an invitation, really.”

“To do what?”

“Choose your side before it’s chosen for you.”

Gaby scoffs. She gestures casually, almost cruelly at the Wall. “I think that’s already been taken care of.”

She hesitates, softening a bit. “But… if I _could_ choose,” Gaby shakes her head and starts over. Settles for something safer.“What side are you on?”

“Broadly speaking, Miss Teller, I’m on the side of the greater good. The side that _doesn’t_ want another atom bomb. But, if we’re being specific, then MI6.”

 _Ta-da_ , his smile seems to say. She doesn’t return it. “You want to use me as a double agent.”

“Our ace in the hole. Exactly.”

Gaby hums, noncommittally. The prospect both terrifies and thrills her. _Think this through_ , she cautions.

“And what would you have me do in the meantime?”

“Nothing more than what you’re already doing. _Although_ ,” he adds, and is pleased to see the sudden fire in her eyes, “if you’d be so inclined, I’m sure we could put your skill set to good use.”

Gaby’s curt nod is all he needs for now. He doesn’t want to get too invested in her just yet, but Lord knows he could use someone like the mechanic. Any ally behind the Iron Curtain, even a temporary one, would be invaluable. One as gifted as Gaby would be a godsend.

Waverly indicates the now long-forgotten Trabant. “I’ll be back in a week to check on our patient’s recovery. That should give you plenty of time to think this over.”

“And the tank?”

“Gone within the hour,” he promises and can see how visibly she relaxes. “It’d be a shame to leave any loose ends, especially when I already pulled so many strings to secure it.”

Waverly has one more surprise in store for the mechanic. “You _might_ want to have a look at the glove compartment,” he says, as he hands over the keys to the Trabant. “You never know what you may find.”

Gaby warily navigates the car’s crunched interior. She pulls out a nondescript box and frowns at the unexpected weight. She peeks inside. A pistol gleams up at her, alongside all the necessary accoutrement. Judging by the size, it looked like it would fit comfortably in her hand. More importantly, it looked easy to conceal.

“Walther PPK,” the Brit supplies. “It may be small, but it packs quite the punch. Much like you, I imagine.” He grins. “And just a touch more elegant than that wrench you’ve got in your car.”

Despite everything, Gaby finds herself returning his smile. She chuckles softly when he suddenly speaks in perfect, unaccented German. _Should have guessed_ , she thinks, with a shake of her head.

 _“One week. I expect you’ll have an answer for me by then.”_ Gaby nods and turns to leave. Waverly stops her.

_“One more thing, Miss Teller.”_

_“Yes?”_

_“Happy Birthday.”_

And with a wink, he is gone.

Another man—no doubt a plain-clothes associate of Waverly’s—materializes soon after  to retrieve the tank. Gaby watches as the hulking vehicle is steered away and replays the surreal encounter in her mind.

 _He’s a defector_. The thought makes her smile, but there’s an edge to it: a shade of resentment, perhaps, or jealousy. But he is alive and that is all that matters right now.

And if her father is in trouble, she will help him.

Gaby clutches the box a little tighter to her chest. It is a touchstone, a promise. A ticket out of East Germany. _Now is not the time_ , she thinks for the third time that day. _But soon_.

The thought gives her an unexpected sense of peace.

She feels calm. In control. _Powerful_.

For the first time in a month, there’s no temptation to look for trouble. No siren song to pull her from her path. The razor’s edge finally feels steady beneath her feet.

Gaby mulls over her father’s words as she heads into the garage.

If he could play the long game, then so could she.

    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rome may not have been built in a day, but the Berlin Wall was. The polizei and National People's Army (NPA) began at midnight on August 13, 1961 and had raised the first iteration of it by the time the people of Berlin awoke. That day later became known as Barbed Wire Sunday. 
> 
> The two deaths referenced in this chapter are Ida Siekmann (the first casualty of the Wall; she tried to jump from her three-story apartment) and Gunter Liftin (the first murdered victim; he tried to swim to West Berlin via the Spree Canal on the same day that orders went out to shoot on sight). The apartments closest to the Wall were evacuated soon after and all windows on the surrounding buildings were bricked and boarded up.
> 
> The US ran Operation Overcast (later renamed Operation Paperclip) beginning in 1945 to recruit German scientists and engineers to help the Americans win the Space Race against Russia—who had their own version of the campaign, Operation Osoaviakhim, which was conducted in a single night. Dr. Udo Teller would theoretically have been recruited through Overcast/Paperclip and convinced/forced to relocate to America... or potentially face prosecution as a war criminal.
> 
> The Centurion was a highly-regarded British tank that remained in use from the 1940s until the 1980s. The Soviet T-34 was also a WW2-era tank that was still in service during the Cold War. More importantly, it was used by the NPA in East Berlin, though only in modified and recovery engineering positions. The Walther PPK is a German pistol that was a pioneer for concealed carry firearms (it also happens to be James Bond's weapon of choice).
> 
> Thanks again for reading! The next few chapters are done... just still in the rewrite process. :)


	2. Not Though The Soldiers Knew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon and Illya receive their assignments.
> 
> Chapter title taken from "The Charge of the Light Brigade".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted chapter 1 on Elizabeth Debicki's birthday and now chapter 2 on Armie Hammer's. :)
> 
> Research notes are at the bottom, but just wanted to thank you all for being so kind and welcoming! Your lovely comments mean more than I could ever say, so please feel free to share your thoughts. :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Friday, June 07, 1963**

Napoleon calls it the Foxhole.

It reminds him of the makeshift trenches that he and the other GIs would dig. They were desperate, dangerous places to be in—at once, a war room, a bunker, and a battlefield—and this one is no exception.

Deep within the bowels of the earth, the Foxhole houses a long-abandoned CIA blacksite. _Gently used_ , he thinks mirthlessly. It now stands as an eerie time capsule to the war years, only used for the most sensitive of situations.

Solo keeps his distance. He cautiously regards the weather-beaten hatch.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say I were being punished.”

“And _I’d_ say you’d probably deserve it,” his handler retorts. The rusted padlock falls to the ground with a muffled _clang_.

“Funny as ever, sir.”

Sanders pulls the hatch open, its hinges groaning in protest. He glowers at his agent. “Only _this_ is no laughing matter, Solo.”

“You wouldn’t have brought me here otherwise, sir.”

His handler starts to climb down the hatch. After a moment’s hesitation, Solo steels himself to do the same. The ladder is narrow, its rungs painfully cold and almost burning against his hands.

 _Into the jaws of Death/Into the mouth of hell_ , he recites to himself. Snatches of Tennyson punctuate his descent.

Older than he had looked and braver than he had felt, Napoleon was only sixteen when he forged his way into the army. “The Charge of the Light Brigade” is the last thing he remembers studying before he enlisted.

The verses’ _marcato_ cadence carried him through the long days and the dark nights: a steady heartbeat that kept him grounded and re-focused his attention while the world fell apart around him. What thus began as a school assignment quickly became his lifeline.

The poem has stayed with him ever since. Solo frowns at the gaps in his memory and quickly runs through the lines again.

_Theirs not to make reply,_

_Theirs not to reason why,_

_Theirs but to do and die…_

Well, those lines he simply _chose_ to ignore.

Seven years of “distinguished service” in the military did not have quite the desired effect on Napoleon. If anything, it only taught him how to camouflage his true nature. He had a very generous interpretation of the “spirit of the law” and would leave no boundary untested. Simply put, he was obedient when it suited him—an angel-faced saboteur when it didn’t.

He serves a new master now.

The CIA may grant him a long leash, but Solo knows his collar is little more than a noose. Freedom lay five years on the horizon. He wonders if it is merely a mirage.

Sanders could always retract his promise and there would be no consequences. Not when Napoleon is considered a “slave of the state”. Turns out the US still allowed slavery… it was right there in the Constitution.

Solo should know. He had checked for every possible loophole.

The Thirteenth Amendment, in fact, _does_ justify “involuntary servitude” in the case of “punishment for crimes whereof the party shall have been duly convicted”.

While he knows he’s not innocent, Napoleon also knows his particular “arrangement” with the CIA isn’t quite the mercy they claim it to be. He’s just a different type of prison laborer. Still…

 _It beats the alternative_.

The two men wind their way through the maze of cells, interrogation rooms, and the types of sordid spaces it doesn’t do well to think too closely about. It is a lurid hellscape of harsh fluorescents and outdated technology.

The air here always seems heavy with some unspoken moment of reckoning.

They enter the converted office and gather around the grimy desk. Solo gingerly takes a seat, not bothering to hide his distaste. The room is as filthy as he remembers, but as usual, his handler doesn’t seem to mind.

Sanders rifles through his briefcase and tosses a folder to Solo. The moments tick by in stifling silence.  He flips idly through the documents, acutely aware that he’s under scrutiny.

If his handler is trying to get a read on him, it won’t get him anywhere. Solo maintains the same expression during every briefing: polite, feigned disinterest.

Maybe not so feigned this time around.

He can feel his eyes glaze over as he skims through the stack of dense pages crammed with even denser language. Engineering jargon, by the looks of it. The photo of a pretty, young woman shakes Solo from his stupor.

 _What a breath of fresh air_ , he thinks. She had delicate features, dark hair and dark eyes. Were he to wax poetic, Solo might say there is another shade of darkness to her: one that simmers just beneath the surface.

 _A survivor_ , he concludes.

His handler interrupts Solo’s musings with a derisive scoff. He mutters something under his breath, _something_ that sounds suspiciously like “typical”.

“Excuse me?”

He’s crucified by a cold stare. Sanders sweeps his hand over the cramped desk in disgust. “I present you with the threat of impending nuclear holocaust and your only concern is whether there’s a girl involved.”

Solo smiles blandly. He’s not going to deny it. “Well, the world’s always in danger, sir.” He picks up the photo again and turns it to face Sanders. “And, uh, who is she?”

“Gabriella Teller, the daughter of our missing scientist. She’s your next mission.” He must notice _something_ in his agent’s expression because he’s compelled to add, “Don’t get your hopes up, Solo, this isn’t a honeypot. It’s an extraction.”

“I wasn’t aware the two were mutually exclusive.” He makes an exaggerated show of furrowing his brows. “ _Extraction_ , you say. Isn’t that a little—”

“ _Beneath you_?” The man sneers. “Not when the arms race depends on it.” He leans over the desk, leaving Solo no choice but to look up at him.

“Now, I know better than to appeal to your sense of patriotism. But if I can count on one thing, Solo, it’s the lengths you’ll go to save your own neck.”

A muscle tics in Napoleon’s jaw, but he remains silent. Besides, the man _did_ have a point.

“An atom bomb in the wrong hands… I don’t think I need to spell out the consequences for you.” A vicious, almost _triumphant_ smirk crosses Sanders’ face. “And cat burglar or not, you’re running out of lives.”

His handler chuckles at his own joke—a harsh, rusty bark of a laugh—and Napoleon graces him with a polite smile. It would take much more than a few (frankly unoriginal) jibes to get a rise out of him.

“You’ll be receiving support from Agent Jones.” He scowls Solo into silence. “It’s a two-man job. Get the girl and _then_ you can go back to your lone wolf act.”

“And when I—forgive me, _we—_ retrieve Miss Teller, what would you like us to do?”

“Find out everything she knows.” Sanders punctuates each statement with more papers and photographs. “About her _father_. His _research_. And her _Uncle Rudi_. We suspect he may have had a hand in Udo’s disappearance.”

Sanders slides a final photo to Solo. “This was taken yesterday in Rome.” Napoleon’s gaze immediately goes to the statuesque blonde. Off his look, his handler says, “Victoria Vinciguerra. She’s Rudi’s employer.”

He purses his lips as he studies her. Even from the grainy snapshot, Solo can tell that the woman is unmistakably, _confidently_ dangerous. The same darkness he had sensed in Miss Teller seems to be the woman’s defining feature. It intrigues him.

He shifts his attention to the harried-looking scientist behind her. So, the good doctor had ended up in Rome. That wasn’t so bad. It seems much cushier than wherever he’s going. He frowns. Where _is_ he going?

“You leave in two days. That should give you enough time to make all the arrangements.” Sanders fiddles with his coat buttons. It doesn’t take a spy to see the man is stalling. _Delaying the inevitable._ “You’ll find the girl working as a mechanic under the name Schmidt, after her foster father.”

“And where exactly will that be, sir?”

“Berlin.”

Napoleon sighs. _There it is_.

“I take it _Fraulein_ Schmidt’s not on the West side, is she?”

“It’ll be _simple_.”

“It always is, sir.”

Solo has the sinking feeling that he’s trading one Foxhole for another. _Half a league, half a league/Half a league onward_ … he starts to chant.

 

* * *

 

**Monday, June 10, 1963**

As soon as they caught wind of the Americans’ plans, the KGB sent him to Berlin.

Illya has spent the last 30 hours on a train from Moscow and now finds himself in the dingy screening room of their German base. He desperately wants to stretch his legs… but this is Oleg’s show and Illya knows better than to call attention to himself.

His handler briefs him on a man named Napoleon Solo and the American’s checkerboarded past. It had taken four countries to take him down. Illya balks at the absurdity. The collaboration was inefficient, betraying an embarrassing weakness.

 _If the KGB had been involved_ , he thinks proudly, _they wouldn’t have needed a special task force_. _No need to work with anyone else_.

Illya clenches and unclenches his fists slowly. An irritated tremor shudders through his fingers with each new revelation. The CIA’s “most successful and prolific agent” is nothing more than a criminal and womanizer. He serves his country out of obligation. Without pride. Without _honor_.

Illya doesn’t know which part makes him angrier.

_If this Solo is the best the Americans could come up with, then they truly are as—_

The words trail off, instantly forgotten, as the slide changes. A girl—no, a _woman—_ illuminates the screen before him. She stares evenly into the distance, oblivious to, or perhaps, _in contempt of_ the camera snapping the candid photo.

There’s a striking quality about her. It’s not the defiant tilt of her jaw or the intensity of her gaze, but something else entirely. _It’s her presence_ , he finally decides.

While the American’s photos radiate smugness like too strong cologne, hers is distinctly different: subtler, but just as palpable. It is at once both strange and familiar and Illya wishes he could put his finger on it.

He makes a mental note to think about it later when he hears the projectionist cough. Illya tears his gaze from the photo and turns back to his handler. He swallows thickly. Illya’s preoccupation hasn’t gone unnoticed.

Only Oleg, he thinks, could make their mother tongue sound so harsh.

“ _The Teller girl_ ,” his handler repeats. “ _If you fail tonight, Kuryakin, she will defect like her father. How you get her here does not matter as long as she is alive. And willing to cooperate._ ”

Illya nods. He hopes it won’t come to that, but he will do what needs to be done. He glances down at his father’s watch, half for the time and half for the reminder of what could happen to him if he doesn’t.

He returns his gaze to the girl’s—the _woman’s—_ photo, wanting to commit her image to memory.

 _For the mission_ , of course.

Illya feels a hot stab of anger when the screen suddenly goes black. He wants to shout at the projectionist, remind him in no uncertain terms how important it is he recognize his mark. But he doesn’t.

The briefing is over and Illya has a mission to complete.

He rises and awaits his dismissal. Oleg flicks cigarette ash at him as he speaks, eyes dark with implied threats.

“ _Kill him if necessary, but he must not help the girl escape_.”

_“Understood.”_

Illya turns crisply on his heel and leaves, gratefully stretching out his legs. It’s a short-lived victory, however, when he sees the tiny Trabant they’ve provided for him.

He spends his drive to the _Friedrichstraße_ Crossing Point imagining his victory over the American. Illya would make sure Solo felt the weight of his failure and fully understood the _shame_ of it. _No criminal could match the KGB._

The American may be the best, but then again, so is Illya.

He would let Solo think he had the advantage. Let him visit the chop shop first and tip his hand, all while the Russians listened in. They would find out everything the CIA knew before Illya intervened and ruined Solo’s perfect record.

He will allow the American to reach the mechanic first, because, at the end of it all, Illya knows the Teller girl will be leaving with _him_. There’s something immensely satisfying about that thought.

It is only then that Illya realizes his fingers have stopped tapping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm basing my timeline on JFK's speech given on June 10, 1963... the one used in the film. I'm treating it as an in-universe confirmation of the chronology.
> 
> Foxholes rose to prominence during WW2 when the static fronts of WWI gave way to an increased desire for mobility (short, makeshift trenches were quicker and less demanding to construct and could easily be abandoned). Conventional wisdom was "Dig or Die" and soldiers used whatever they could (shovels, rifle butts, rocks, even their fingernails) to make them. While considered "defensive fighting positions", foxholes still allowed its occupants to mount a counter-attack.
> 
> A lot of research involved... but hope you enjoyed! Next chapter will be up soon. :)
> 
> “GI” originally stood for “galvanized iron” and was an acronym used by the US Army inventory and supply records. Later, it took on the meaning of “General Issue” or “Government Issue” in reference to the WW2 draft and described American soldiers.
> 
> Blacksites refer to those off-the-book government locations in which “enhanced interrogation techniques” (read: torture) and other such practices are conducted. They were around during WW2 and, while primarily located offshore, I don’t think it precludes the possibility that they existed domestically as well.
> 
> “The Charge of the Light Brigade” was written in 1854 by Alfred, Lord Tennyson about the Battle of Balaclava. For my fellow English nerds, it's written in dactylic dimeter which gives it that strong, almost marching cadence (DUM-da-da, DUM-da-da). Besides the more overt references in the script, I chose it for a couple of reasons. Henry Cavill describes Solo as a “bit of an Anglophile… who managed to infiltrate English high society”, and coincidentally, Solo is canonically well-versed in English poetry (according to the Napoleon Solo Wikipedia entry). Just a lovely (and completely unexpected) moment of synchronicity. :)
> 
> The Thirteenth Amendment abolished slavery in the conventional sense, but not entirely. It reads “Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, except as punishment for crimes whereof the party shall have been duly convicted, shall exist within the United States, or any place subject to their jurisdiction.”
> 
> The 1871 Virginia Supreme Court case, Ruffin v. Commonwealth, resulted in the declaration that prisoners were “slaves of the state”. I should point out that there was a clear racial motivation to this and that the “duly convicted” clause of the 13th Amendment led to rampant abuse, but that “slaves of the state” could be of any creed or color. The states would “lease” their prisoners to farms and other entities in need of cheap (unpaid) labor. The 1960s saw the “Prisoners’ Rights Movement” in which prisoners were extended protection in 1964 under The Civil Rights Act and could challenge the legality of their convictions. 
> 
> The Friedrichstraße Crossing Point is what the Soviets would have called Checkpoint Charlie (the Allies’ term for the East/West Berlin border crossing point that was the only one open to foreigners and the Allied Forces). The Germans would have referred to it as Grenzübergangsstelle ("Border Crossing Point") Friedrich-/Zimmerstraße based on its location.
> 
> A lot of research involved, but I hope you enjoyed it! Next chapter will be up soon. :)


	3. Steam From A Tea Kettle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The escape from East Berlin!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More character study than missing moments on this one. It might be POV whiplash, but I hope you enjoy!
> 
> This is largely my attempt to make sense of Illya's Terrible Plan (TM). :) Love him to pieces, but come on, buddy, you knew all the details of Solo's arrival and so you... let him cross the border, planted a bug on him so he could lead you to where you already knew he was going and/or with the intention of listening in THROUGH his metal case, and then. Dismissed. Your. Only. Ally. Great for the plot... not so great for his reputation as the KGB's best.
> 
> Unnecessary research notes at the end... it's a black hole, isn't it? Thanks for reading and for all the lovely comments. :)

**Monday, June 10, 1963**

A glance at his watch officially confirms his suspicions: the American is late. No doubt, he huffs, _fashionably_ so. Illya grouses into his newspaper. He’s read the German publication at least twice by now, even mentally translated the articles into Russian and English.

It’s not so bad, though, the waiting.

Illya has come to appreciate the quiet moments, the pockets of stillness between crises. The anticipation as well as the aftermath. There is an ebb and flow to his line of work and Illya has learned to honor that tide: he is the attack, but also the retreat. The man weaponized on impulse and the KGB’s most methodical, diligent agent.

What his superiors fail to grasp is that Illya has yet to _truly_ lose control. Even when the red haze clouds his vision, his rage is never blind. The chessmaster and strategist, sambo champion and _yudansha_ are two sides of the same coin.

He may not always see three steps ahead during his episodes, but he can still see the whole board. Illya knows how to recover from a wrong move, knows which pieces need to be sacrificed. Knows the day is coming when he will be one of them.

Illya won’t take it personally when it does.

He understands that the traitor’s son will eventually outlive his usefulness. He has made his peace with it, relieved that whether he goes to the _gulag_ or the grave, Illya has no attachments. No complications. Nothing to leave behind, nothing to look forward to. There is only Mother Russia and her elusive love.

He will always be chasing his parents’ approval.

Out of the corner of his eye, Illya finally sees the CIA agent approach. He watches in irritated awe as the man strolls, no, _saunters_ up to the checkpoint. Solo’s confidence is magnetic. Maddening. It will also be the American’s downfall.

He hums, smug. Illya’s plan is simple, elegant. _Efficient_. All he has to do now is be conspicuously inconspicuous; the border guard he bribed earlier will take care of the rest.

 _A little sleight-of-hand_. _A little misdirection. No need for Western razzle-dazzle_.

 

* * *

 

 _Right on time_ , he smirks. The gleaming Rolex winks up at him in the sunlight and Solo is half-tempted to wink back. The watch is a prized acquisition of his… a reminder that even the self-made man can reinvent himself.

He hands over his papers with what he _hopes_ to be a disarming smile. Napoleon will never be able to pull off ‘innocent’, but he’ll settle today for ‘cooperative’. He even opens his suitcase for inspection, using the opportunity to take stock of his surroundings.

It doesn’t take long to notice something amiss. There is an impressively-statured man watching him over the folds of a newspaper: forced casual stance, clear sight line to the border, face obscured by a hat and sunglasses.

Obviously, an agent of sorts. _KGB_ , if he had to put money on it.

The suitcase shuts with a loud click and Solo smiles reflexively. _Welcome to the Iron Curtain_ , he supplies, as the guard waves him through. He doesn’t need to look to know the Russian has left.

It should trouble him more, but it doesn’t. In fact, Napoleon would find it far more worrisome if he _weren’t_ being watched. One of Sanders’ men pulls up in a taxi and Solo brushes aside the nagging doubts.

When he finally chances a look back, the checkpoint is fading fast in the distance. There’s no one following him.

Not yet, at least.

Solo’s not nervous, but he’ll feel a lot more comfortable once he can get his gun.

 

* * *

 

Waverly had paid her a rare visit to break the news. _Progress at last_ , she thinks. After nearly two years of fits and starts, Gaby _knows_ these will be her final days in East Berlin.

She wants to end her career here on a high note.

It’s a point of professional pride, perhaps, or an offering to the powers-that-be: safe passage over the Wall in exchange for the best work she can offer.

She has thus spent countless hours with the Wartburg 311. Gaby has lovingly, _painstakingly_ upgraded the engine and coaxed a newfound ferocity from the little car. It is her pet project; any customer asking for her is automatically redirected, refused. The other mechanics are astonished by the change in her.

Gaby has always been excellent, thorough, but pulled in a thousand different directions: taking on any work that comes her way, intensely interested in everything that doesn’t. When they ask her about this sudden, single-minded focus, she merely shrugs and returns to lavishing her attentions on the car.

As expected, then, Gaby is under the Wartburg tonight. Constantly tinkering, eyes perpetually searching for the slightest imperfections. She hears a set of footsteps approaching—soft and sure—and rolls her eyes. She’s ready to snap at whichever brave, but foolish coworker has dared to stop by when she hears an unfamiliar baritone above her.

A smooth voice speaks smoother words in lightly-accented German. Gaby is overwhelmingly grateful to be under the Wartburg. She doubts she could hide her shock otherwise.

 _An American_.

He’s not supposed to be here.

 

* * *

 

“Okay, Mr. Important Suit, who are you and what do you want?”

Illya hides his smirk as he listens in. The Teller girl is immune to the American’s charms. It pleases him, not that he would expect anything less from her. _A woman like that would never fall for such… heavy-handed advances_.

The CIA agent is transparent, tactless. He has done nothing to put the mechanic at ease, but, from the sounds of it, he is making himself right at home. _He hasn’t even introduced himself_ , Illya grumbles. His fingers start to dance against his thigh.

If the American would spend less time _antagonizing_ his mark, Illya might be able to learn something important.

Like the Teller girl’s first name.

Solo delivers his latest barb—this one about “Hitler’s favorite rocket scientist”—and Illya’s teeth clench painfully. He has to remind himself to keep breathing when the German woman answers. Her voice is even tighter than the fists he’s forming.

“That doesn’t sound very friendly.”

Illya knows only too well how she must be feeling, having her father’s past thrown in her face like that. He thinks about how often she has had to deal with it, and whether she too, wears her shame like a second skin.

 _No_ , he decides, with a conviction that startles him. If her picture is anything to go by, then Illya knows that the mechanic is _proud_. Proud and unapologetic, even when steeped in second-hand shame. Proud, like his mother had been. And strong.

He wonders if one day the Teller girl might share that same strength with him. Teach him to hold his head high and maybe… _maybe_ to free himself from his inherited burden. But that is a truly dangerous thought. A complication.

His hands shake violently as Oleg’s favorite motivational slogan reverberates through him. _The sins of the father_...

“You’re wasting your time. I haven’t seen him in eighteen years.”

The sound of that dark, musical lilt call him back, though the words themselves jolt him. Illya hasn’t seen his own father in two decades. _Just one more thing in common_.

He steadies his hands, steadies his breathing by focusing on the Teller girl and the husky, honeyed timbre of her voice.

He will leave the van soon, leave the other agent to run surveillance, and then finally, he will come face to face with the mechanic. If there’s a reason why a fresh tremor racks his fingers, Illya can’t—or perhaps, _won’t—_ say it.

He is confident he can persuade her to leave with him. _Win her over._ Illya will appeal to their shared past and the ways he can understand her situation better than anyone else. Then the Teller girl would lift her dark eyes to meet his and he would—

The sound cuts out with an angry hiss and Illya barely stifles his own. The American must have found the bug.

Illya storms out of the van. He stalks to his vantage point across from the garage, careful not to follow his previous train of thought.

 

* * *

 

Solo smirks, bemused, at the newly-drowned device. He’s a good sport, willing to concede when someone’s gained the upper hand. But the Russian’s not the only one with a trick up his sleeve…

_“What makes you think I know where he is?”_

_Napoleon deliberately holds the bug in front of him. He wants there to be no mistaking his next words._

_“I don’t think you do, but I think you know someone who does: your mother’s brother, Uncle Rudi.”_

_He knows it isn’t much, but if things went south tonight, it would offer some protection to the mechanic. At the very least, it would divert the Russians’ attention to a more… fitting target._

_“I’m also told that your father was never—”_

_The bug lands in the coffee with a satisfying splash. He’s already thrown the KGB a bone with the tip on Rudi… they would have to work for the rest._

_It wouldn’t be the first time Napoleon had been called a tease._

Solo continues his search for a map. It won’t be long now before the KGB arrive to investigate. And worse. He would really prefer not to be cornered in a garage when that happens.

 

* * *

 

Gaby’s night has taken a hard right turn into hell.

Waverly would be livid when he heard about this. That’s assuming she’d get the chance to tell him. With the way things were going tonight, her odds of survival were slimming _fast_.

 _Russians_.

The word shivers down her spine. For as long as Gaby can remember, the Russians have been corporeal nightmares—haunting her dreams as much as they haunted her day-to-day existence.

She looks out the window and her blood goes cold. A towering figure half-hidden in the shadows stares back at her, unflinching. Gaby takes an involuntary step backwards. She chokes back her fear with a deep, stabilizing breath.

Two years of training kicks in as a calm, icy confidence claims her. The mechanic may be untested in the field, but she’s had more than enough brushes with danger to know how to handle herself.

And Russian or not, Gaby is getting over that Wall.

“Do you mind terribly if I borrow your car?”

She glares at the American, but snatches the keys anyway. Gaby studies the beloved Wartburg, remembering her cosmic bargain. She offers a sharp, self-conscious prayer to any beings who might listen.

The engine roars to life with a flick of the wrist.

And, just like that, Gaby is leaving the garage for the final time.

 

* * *

 

Illya catches the briefest glimpse of her through the tiny window. Even from this distance, he can see her dark eyes widen in fright when she sees him. He has prepared himself for it. It is reflexive, a natural fear response.

It still stings.

 _“Get the car,”_ he growls to his fellow agent. There’s an additional brusqueness to the dismissal that isn’t entirely for the change of plan. The marks would be leaving soon. Infiltrating the garage on foot is no longer viable.

 _Maybe it’s for the best_.

Illya imagines himself taking up entirely too much space in the cramped chop shop… the girl pressed back against the wall, the American lying at her feet. He’s certain the mechanic won’t go without a fight and the last thing he wants to do is hurt her.

Maybe the open road really is better. Room to breathe, room to maneuver, room, even, to bare his soul…

 _Please trust me_.

_I understand._

_My father also—_

He catches sight of a Wartburg exiting the garage. The Teller girl maintains a careful, casual pace, but her white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel betrays her. She appears to be alone. Illya can only assume the American is hiding in the backseat.

The uncertainty gnaws at him.

The mechanic could simply be a distraction while Solo lurks nearby with a gun—the man’s answer to Illya’s earlier ruse. _Another misdirection_ , he thinks _._

The Trabant hasn’t even parked before Illya is yanking the driver out. _“Stay here,_ ” he orders. “ _Look for the American_.”

Illya trusts his own abilities… and now isn’t the time to trust anyone else’s. He _refuses_ to risk the Teller girl getting caught in the crossfire.

He follows the Wartburg from a respectable distance. On the empty road, however, he catches up immediately. They wait side-by-side at the streetlight, Illya’s fingers drumming an anticipatory tattoo against the wheel.

It’s the calm before the storm, but he will stretch the moments as long as he can.

His breath hitches when his blue eyes meet her brown ones. The mechanic graces him with the barest hint of a smile and Illya swears it’s only the adrenaline making his head spin.

He tries to focus, vaguely aware he’s still staring. His free hand closes over the gun beside him. The cold metal grounds him and brings him back to his senses.

 _Misdirection_.

With a start, Illya flicks his eyes to the back of her car. It is purely instinct that saves him… he reclines his seat just as the bullets pierce the glass.

The Wartburg screeches away and Illya curses how easily he fell for the trick. _What was he expecting?_ Prey never smiled at predators… the American probably told her to do it. Or worse.

Had she smiled because she _knew_ what was about to happen?

His Trabi peels after them. Illya tries to recall the mechanic’s expression, searching for any trace of triumph or cruelty. He can’t find any, but that could simply be wishful thinking. And right now, wishful thinking would be the death of him.

Illya tamps down any burgeoning… _uncertainties_ he has about the Teller girl and steels himself to think of her as just another mission. He slams his car against hers and the game of cat-and-mouse begins anew.

The storm has finally broken.

 

* * *

 

“Nicely done.”

He means it sincerely too. Maybe after all of this was over, Napoleon could recruit her as his getaway driver. She _would_ be in need of employment after all, and, besides, they were already building such a fine rapport.

The glare she gives him says otherwise, but he smiles it off: nothing brings people together like a little trial by fire.

“Hold on.”

Another expert handbrake turn and they are concealed, parked between two cars. The mechanic ducks down and joins Solo in hiding, the sound of the Trabant receding in the distance. He marvels at the girl’s quick thinking, but they’re not in the clear just yet.

Napoleon bides his time, almost feeling sorry for the KGB agent as he takes the bait. _Almost_. The man is clearly banking on the element of surprise… but, unfortunately for him, so is Solo.

With the whizzing of two, well-placed bullets, the Trabi gives up the ghost in a harsh metallic cacophony. Solo pockets his gun and narrowly avoids being flattened by the Wartburg. He stares, incredulous, at the German woman. She shrugs.

It’s not an apology.

 _Rapport-building_ , he reminds himself.

Solo hazards a glance at the wreck and finds no sign of activity. He’s not sure anything _can_ kill the Russian, but he hopes this will slow him down some.

Much to his chagrin (and admittedly, his amusement), Napoleon doesn’t have to wait long for an answer.

 

* * *

 

“He’s trying. To stop. The car.”

 _And he’s succeeding_. Even if the man hadn’t shot out her back tire, Gaby doesn’t doubt the Wartburg would strain against his counterforce regardless.

She’s as shocked as the American is, but she’s not about to sit around gawking at the Russian either.

“We’re struggling here. Why don’t you take a shot at him?”

“Somehow, it just doesn’t seem like the right thing to do.”

_Then what good are you?_

The words die on her lips when their pursuer _rips the back of her car clean off_. The sight of it guts her, although it means her Wartburg has been freed.

“First left, then immediate right.”

Gaby’s temper flares at the absurdity, the _indignation_ of it all. Her mood only gets worse from there. At the American’s goading, she floors the Wartburg down the narrow alleyway, all the while bracing for the inevitable.

With a series of sickening crunches, Gaby martyrs her pet project. _There’s your sacrifice_ , she thinks darkly. She sweeps her glare from the Wall to the stars above. _Now it’s your turn_.

Gaby huffs and turns to the man beside her. His expression is tauntingly benign. She scowls. _You couldn’t have just got me a visa, could you?_

“Now what?”

“Take _another_ left through the window.”

His smugness is suffocating in the small confines of the car. Gaby’s _really_ starting to regret not running him over earlier.

“After you.”

She glowers at him. With as much dignity as she can muster (and it’s not much), Gaby wriggles out of the Wartburg and into the awaiting apartment.

The graceful way the American does it makes her hate him that much more.

 

* * *

 

_“KGB! Out of the way!”_

The _polizei_ officers refuse to yield and block off the entrance to the alleyway. Sirens wail over the thrumming in his ears as Illya tries again. German may not be his first language, but there are other ways of getting a message across.

His patience, already paper-thin, snaps when he hears the call for back-up. Illya is ruthlessly efficient, but he uses the bare minimum of force. He might need their help later. Illya keeps the captain’s gun, grabs the two-way radio, and charges into the alley.

His breakneck pace falters. The Wartburg is suspended in mid-flight above him. _What type of plan is this?_ Illya sees the open window and puts two and two together. _Americans_ , he scoffs.

Illya tears through the flat and races up the staircase. He’s a second too late: the only way to the roof now is on the outside. He swears under his breath.

The chessmaster formulates a new strategy. His foresight and restraint earlier are about to come in handy. He barks orders into the handheld transceiver and is certain that _this_ time, the men will listen to him.

If _any_ of them shoot at the Teller girl, though, Illya will kill them all personally. He’d rather not think too hard about why he doesn’t question it.

Half out of frustration and half out of necessity, Illya fires a hail of bullets into the metal above him. He waits for someone to investigate the noise and lunges towards the first door that opens, notes reluctantly that the flat belongs to an old woman. A _frightened,_ old woman.

“ _Excuse me, dear, just need to use your back door."_

Illya gently, but _firmly_ pushes past her. He is careful to mind her furniture as he navigates the apartment for an escape route.

When he finishes scaling the outside of the building, the zipline is already in place. He doesn’t have time to react before the mechanic wraps her arms tightly around the American...

Illya starts tearing off his jacket, fashioning an improvised trolley. The floodlights turn on and harshly illuminate their descents. Illya’s heart keeps time with the erratic barking of the guard dogs. It’s a small mercy that no one’s shooting.

His marks stick their landing in the back of a cargo truck, Illya hot on their heels. The line suddenly slackens.

The truck is reversing.

Part of his brain registers his slowing momentum… the other is _far_ more interested in the speedy way the mechanic detaches herself from Solo.

A final lurch. Illya is brought to a standstill over the death strip. The fall won’t kill him at this height, but there’s a strong possibility that something else will. He stares at the two figures across from him. The mechanic’s eyes burn into his, her expression inscrutable.

She is the last thing he sees before the American pulls the pin and the line gives out. When nothing immediately detonates, Illya isn’t entirely sure he’s relieved.

He knows it will take hours to clear a path to retrieve him and wonders if Oleg will think him worth the trouble. After his performance tonight, Illya wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t.

The anger sears and the humiliation scalds. Shame courses through his veins, thicker than the tainted blood within them. For the first time in his career, he has failed. Illya had allowed the Teller girl to escape with the American.

_Defector. Just like her father._

He remembers his briefing with Oleg earlier, and suddenly, it’s not the minefield Illya is concerned about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was worried about disappointing folks with my lack of research notes… added one throwaway line and then, this happened. 
> 
> Yudansha refers to a judo student (judoka) who has achieved a dan rank. Illya is a 4th dan which would be equivalent to a fourth-degree black belt (out of, realistically, a possible 10). At this level, he is still classified as a student, but would be qualified to teach. Illya would need to be a 5th dan, however, to be considered as someone who “truly understands” judo. That rank is generally considered as the completion of the individual’s study and subsequent ranks emphasize the mastery and internalization of judo’s techniques, but also its philosophy. It is technically possible to achieve above a 10th dan… but only the founder of judo has ever been recognized as such and he only awarded ten 10th dans during his lifetime.
> 
> Sambo is a Russian mixed martial art and combat sport that has been around since the 1920s (officially recognized as its own sport in 1938). It’s actually an acronym. SAMBO is a truncated form of SAMozashchita Bez Oruzhiya which translates as “self-defense without weapons”. It was created as a new hand-to-hand combat training style for the Soviet police and Red Army and drew inspiration all over the world. Sambo combines judo with other martial arts as well as international and folk wrestling traditions from Armenia, Georgia, Azerbaijan, Tatar, Uzbek, Mongolia, Romania, China, and France.
> 
> There are two main types of Sambo that would have existed at this time: Sport Sambo and Combat Sambo. It’s very likely Illya would have been well-versed in both of them… judging by the dossier photo, he was a champion in Sport Sambo (no hand or head protection), which is heavily influenced by judo, but which allows leglocks and bars chokeholds. According to the Wikipedia entry, Sport Sambo “focuses on throwing, ground work, and submissions, with very few restrictions on gripping and holds.”
> 
> Combat Sambo, as you might infer, was developed for the military with all the flexibility of modern MMA fighting. From Wikipedia, this form of sambo includes “extensive forms of striking and grappling” and “allows punches, kicks, elbows, knees, headbutts, and groin strikes”. Brutal stuff and is practiced competitively as well.
> 
> Russia has its own tradition of judo (focusing more on trouser and belt throws than classical Japanese judo), and similarly, Japan was one of the earliest countries to adopt sambo. The first Japan/Russia sambo matches occurred in 1965 (the Russians won 14 out of the 16 matches). In the Japan/Russia judo matches, the Russians (who were trained in sambo and had one week of judo training in Japan) similarly gave the Japanese (many of whom were 3rd or 4th dan) a run for their money, losing 8-7.
> 
> There’s actually a spin-off of Sambo developed by one of its founders that is designed for smaller individuals or those who may be weakened by injury. It’s called Samoz and was designed specifically for wounded soldiers and secret agents. I now have an * Unshakable Headcanon * that Illya would train Gaby in this. :)
> 
> Thank you again!


	4. The Freedom Is Incomplete

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaby's first night in the West and Solo's determination to find out more about his future partner/s.
> 
> Chapter title taken from JFK's American University Commencement Speech:  
> "...the peace is not secure, because the freedom is incomplete."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting, but hopefully it's worth the wait!
> 
> Illya is included, but not a POV-character in this chapter. Don't worry, though, he'll be back front-and-center in the next installment! As always, copious and extraneous research notes are included at the bottom.
> 
> Thank you again for reading! Comments are always welcome. :)

 

**Monday, June 10, 1963**

The final curtain falls on the evening’s entertainment: a descending wall of tarpaulin, an unceremonious open ending for their Russian co-star. Napoleon sweeps his hand elegantly through the semi-darkness and prepares to take his bows. His showman’s smile dazzles.

“Welcome to the West, Miss Teller.”

He is greeted, not by roaring applause and bouquets of roses, but by silence.  Deafening, deadening silence. His audience stares listlessly into the middle distance—seemingly oblivious to this grand finale.

The American clears his throat and slowly, _slowly_ the mechanic wakes from her trance. She gives him a tiny, terse nod in acknowledgement before retreating further into herself.

“Thank you.”

Solo knows that look only too well: the endless, engulfing emptiness, the thousand-yard stare of soldiers and survivors. He has seen it countless times and is certain he’s worn it himself, although he’d always managed to charm his way out of treatment.

Still, the nurses taught him a trick or two.

Napoleon racks his brains in the closing darkness, sifts through technicolor memories of casualty clearing stations and things better left unsaid. The answers he seeks reverberate through his skull like cannon-fire.

 _Proximity, immediacy, expectancy_.

PIE.

The American sighs and lets instinct and memory guide him. For a man whose talents lie in understanding people, he’s not used to picking up the pieces. But for the mechanic’s sake, Napoleon will try his best.

 _Proximity_ to the frontlines, _immediacy_ of treatment, _expectancy_ to return to duty…

While the back of a moving truck may not be ideal, it would suffice. Everything else—like hot food, a hot shower, and rest—would just have to wait.

Napoleon shrugs off his suit jacket and steps into the mechanic’s line of sight. He waits for the barest flicker of acknowledgement before he moves any closer.

“May I?”

She looks away, but doesn’t say no. She doesn’t say yes either.  Solo slowly and cautiously drapes the jacket over her slim shoulders—it’s not cold out, but the added weight and warmth should be comforting. At the very least, he reasons, it will help _him_ feel like he’s done his duty as a gentleman.

The contrast is certainly an odd one: his bespoke, designer jacket over her much more… _practical_ coveralls. He might smile if he weren’t so worried. Instead, Napoleon eases into the makeshift seat beside her.

“That was quite the show you put on back there. Did tactical driving come standard with your training?”

The woman flinches. She flashes a wild-eyed stare at him. “ _Training?_ ”

Solo frowns. He’d forgotten all about the startle response. He hurries to smooth things over. “I was merely wondering if all East German mechanics can drive like you, Miss Teller.”

“Oh.”

He watches the mechanic comprehend, relax, and reorient herself to her surroundings. There’s a long pause, and then, almost inaudibly, she adds, “It’s Gaby.”

“Napoleon Solo,” he beams, taking her hand warmly between his own. “I’m serious, Gaby. You’re a natural at this. Calm under pressure, quick on your feet, a _tour de force_ behind the wheel.”

Her faint, polite smile vanishes with his next words. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve done this before.”

Gaby snatches her hand back and huddles deeper within his jacket. Solo studies her, curious. Her past and her business are her own, but there’s something worth exploring here. He’s sure of it.

Napoleon keeps his tone light and teasing, but his eyes are sharp. Searching.

“How about I put in a good word for you when this is all over? See if there _isn’t_ another few adventures left for the both of us.”

The mechanic scoffs. Derisive. “You want us to be _partners_?”

“I’d say our first outing counts as a success, don’t you?”

“We got lucky,” she mutters, then seems to deflate before his eyes. “This life of yours… I don’t think… what if it’s not for me?” The mechanic swallows hard and turns away from him. She grits her teeth, like she’s said far more than she’d intended.

But _that_ , Napoleon knows, is simply a product of shock. It’s a momentary weakness, a crack in her armor. And for once, Solo has no desire to pursue it.

He doesn’t know what Gaby has had to do to survive in East Germany and there’s no humor or victory anymore in finding out. He squeezes her shoulder reassuringly.

“Nonsense. Like I said, you’re a natural.” Napoleon bravely puts on a grin. “I’m sure we can make a spy of you yet.”

Gaby glares at him, but there’s something like a sad little smirk in it as well. She returns to her musings, but this time, her eyes flit around the truck and her knee bounces up and down—all good signs, compared to her earlier condition.

The mechanic may be in her own head, but at least she’s still _here_. An amiable silence fills the truck until—

“What’s going to happen to him?”

The question is unexpected, incriminating. Gaby grimaces. She looks like she wants to take it all back.

“You’re safe, if that’s what you were wondering.” The mechanic nods, pretends like she got her answer. Solo sees right through her. His brow furrows.

“You want to know if _he’s_ safe?”

The realization startles him. Startles them both, going by the look she gives him. _She couldn’t possibly_ _be worried_ for _the Russian, could she?_

_Could she?_

“He’ll be okay, Gaby. They won’t just leave him there.”

“Is it wrong that I’m not disappointed?”

The quake in her voice gives him more pause than the question. “I think it’s understandable. You didn’t want to see—well, not an _innocent_ man—but a man die for following orders. Especially when he made no attempt to hurt you.”

“He tried to _kill_ me,” she snaps.

Whatever uncertainty she felt before seems to be long gone. Solo and Gaby are both glad for it. Already, the mechanic’s color is returning and her eyes are clearer and more focused.

“You know, I don’t think he did. And I _think_ you know it too.” Solo ignores her scoff, frowning at his own words instead. There’s more honesty there than he’d care to admit. “Quite the contrary, in fact. It would seem he were trying to protect you in his own way.”

Both truck and conversation abruptly come to a halt. The American jumps out lightly and offers his hand to the German woman. He grins wickedly at her flustered expression, unable to resist a parting blow.

“Got a little crush, Gaby?”

She makes sure to stomp on his foot as she stalks past. _It’s worth it_ , he thinks.

 

* * *

 

Even by East Berlin standards, the apartment building would be considered modest. Gaby trudges up the stairs and supplies the American with one-word answers. Napoleon— _Solo_ , he’d insisted—questions her about Rudi more than anything else.

It doesn’t surprise her. Waverly had explained that her uncle was a person of interest, _if only_ for his connection to the Vinciguerra family. The delicate way he’d phrased it, however, suggests there’s much more to it than that.

She trusts her handler to tell her the truth.

Gaby knows the Brit can (and does) withhold information from her, but she had made him promise one thing: not to do it to spare her feelings. The man’s reticence here leaves one conclusion... his suspicions have yet to be confirmed.

It’s not for lack of trying.

Shortly after recruiting her, Waverly somehow finagled his way into working for British Oil. In addition to running their shipping department, he has _also_ been surreptitiously running his own opp on all things Vinciguerra. They had been on his radar for sometime now and her connection to Rudi only sweetened the deal.

The two men were practically _friends_ at this point. Her uncle was certainly closer to her handler than he was to his own niece. It amuses her in a grim, humorless sort of way.

When her father had finally been seen with Victoria, Gaby imagines Waverly had cheered—allowing himself to indulge in a rare (and patently British) display of enthusiasm. _Two birds with one stone_ , she can hear him say.

She wonders how much the Americans know and whether she’ll have anything new to report back. She makes a note to look into it later. Currently, though, Gaby is stubbornly holding onto her grudge, and in her eyes, any additional communication constitutes  a surrender.

Solo opens the door for her with a flourish. Gaby huffs. She’s sure the man is slumming it as well, but did he have to mislead her? The flat is small, nondescript, _decidedly_ not the luxury she had been promised.

“Home sweet home,”  the American announces as the mechanic sweeps past. “At least for the next day or so.”

She bristles and watches Solo frown… realizing, no doubt, that “home” had been a very, _very_  poor choice of words. Gaby cuts him off before he can say anything else.

“Is there a washroom somewhere or do they do things differently in the West?” Her tone is sharp, facetious. The shock from earlier bubbles over into anger.

“Just down the hall,” the American responds. Conciliatory. “Why don’t you go freshen up? I’ll work on getting us something to eat.”

“You can take my bags to my room while you’re at it,” she snarls. It’s cruel and she knows it, but she’s well past the point of caring. Gaby storms off, not waiting (and not wanting) to see Solo’s reaction. She lets his jacket fall to the floor in a heap.

The mechanic is by no means ‘sentimental’, but she’s acutely feeling the loss of all her worldly possessions right now. She knows Waverly will go back and retrieve her valuables—the small case she had packed at his request—but it’s little comfort to her in the moment.

Gaby enters the cramped bathroom and glowers at her disheveled reflection. She splashes the icy water against her burning cheeks and lets it flow over her fingers until they start to feel numb. The tension reluctantly eases its deathgrip on her.

She undoes her hair, rakes her fingers messily through the thick tresses. Gaby quickly restyles it and frowns at her shaking hands. Knotting her scarf more forcefully than necessary, she marches off to find her room.

Gaby doesn’t bother to close the door as she shrugs out of her coveralls. Her shoes make satisfying _thumps_ against the wall when she kicks them off before flopping face-first onto the bed. She wills herself to keep it together a while longer.

There’ll be plenty of time to think things over later. But first, Gaby needs to focus on her more pressing needs. Like food. And a stiff drink. Or seven.

The mechanic re-emerges from her room and bends to pick up Solo’s jacket. She’s surprised that the man hasn’t done it himself yet, but imagines it must be his own form of self-punishment. She folds the coat neatly and drapes it over the back of the couch.

Gaby refuses to make eye contact with Solo, but wordlessly accepts the glass of wine he offers. She snorts when she realizes what he’s wearing.

“Nice apron.”

“It’s your first night in the Wild West,” he grins. “I had to dress the part.”

She covers her smile in the bottom of her wine glass as she takes her seat. Gaby will let the alcohol—and not the American—coax her out of her bad mood. The wine, unsurprisingly, is excellent. Far better than anything she's ever had before. But the mechanic has never been the type to drink for taste.

Solo arches an eyebrow as she reaches for the bottle. If he has something to say about how she needs to _savor_ the drink, he knows to keep his mouth shut. _Smart man_. He starts grating truffles instead.

Gaby is on her third glass when he deems it safe to talk again. Either that, or his lush sensibilities are at their breaking point.  “Well?”

She shrugs. “This place isn’t chic. It isn’t even a hotel.”

“No, but it’s safer. And the food isn’t bad.” He sets the plate down in front of her: it’s a peace offering, but the mechanic isn’t ready to reconcile just yet.

“What’s that? Smells like feet.”

“ _Expensive_ feet.”

 _Expensive wine_ too, he must want to add. The label, which the American had surreptitiously turned towards her, looks frighteningly impressive. And considerably more expensive than any government agent had the right to own.

There’s no real heat when Gaby scowls at him. She reasons it’s the wine, but there’s almost a twinge of… guilt in her stomach. Ridiculous.

She is spared any further moral discomfort by a knock at the door. The agent from earlier—Jones—peeks his head in. “He’s here.”

The American sighs and wipes his hands on a towel. He looks at Gaby’s still untouched plate. “I suggest you eat it while it’s still warm.”

She rolls her eyes. “Wouldn’t want me getting cold feet now, would you?”

It’s not quite an apology, but judging by his surprised smirk, it’ll do. “Eat,” he insists. “It’ll make you feel better.”

Gaby can feel him hesitate in the doorway. “That Bordeaux you're guzzling mindlessly... _don't_. It deserves far more reverence than that.”

She raises her glass in a mock-toast as the door shuts behind him.

 

* * *

 

His debriefing begins with the usual mind game.

There can be no mistaking it: this meeting would be conducted _entirely_ on his handler’s terms. Solo has no choice but to stare at the back of the man’s head until he acknowledges him. While JFK delivers his latest, impassioned speech in the background, Napoleon knows that Sanders has every intention of making him wait.

 _15 - love_.

It only gets worse from there.

Solo knows his intel is limited—even if Gaby had wanted to be helpful (and she made it abundantly clear she hadn’t)—the mechanic simply didn’t have the answers they were looking for. But _that_ is no longer his concern.

He’s done his part and will be flying to New York first thing in the morning.

As could be expected, Sanders is not pleased by any of this. “We already knew all that. Your job here is _done_ when I tell you it’s done.”

So much for going home.

 _Thirty-love_.

“You told me this was gonna be a simple extraction.” It’s a petty comment, one his handler is quick to volley. Napoleon struggles to rally, his silver tongue feeling more and more like lead.

The man will brook no argument about the Russian and, instead, goes straight for the jugular. “Remind me, Solo. How long was your prison sentence? You owe me five more years.”

 _Forty-love_.

Sanders approaches him, a predator sensing the kill.

“Now, I know you’ve been taking care of yourself on the side. You’re wetting your beak, so to speak. We don’t pay you enough to be able to put truffles in your risotto, Solo. But don’t ever make the calamitous error of mistaking my _deliberate_ shortsightedness for _blindness_.”

 _And that’s game_.

It’s a rude awakening for him: the realization that his handler is much shrewder than he’d let on. Solo certainly won’t be making _that_ mistake again. His stomach drops when he considers the weight of Sanders’ words.

He has always been careful with his extracurricular activities, but if the CIA had somehow cottoned on…

It won’t be five years until freedom. It’ll be five years until his next _sentencing_. He’s been staring down the barrel of his own smoking gun and just now realizing he’d been the one to load it.

“You report for duty tomorrow morning, 9 am sharp. And with a better attitude.”

Napoleon does the only thing he _can_ do at that moment. He smiles.

There will be time enough to lick his wounds later. But first, he has an errand to run. Solo strides down the narrow hallway and knocks on his fellow agent’s door. The man greets him with a long-suffering expression.

“I need everything you can get on the Russian.”

“I don’t take orders from you, Solo.”

“Of course you don’t,” he replies smoothly. “But I doubt it’s the last we’ll be seeing of him. Always better to be prepared.”

The man grunts, mollified. Already in a bad mood, though, Napoleon is keen to provoke him. “It shouldn’t be too hard to identify him. Even for _you_.”

He spares the agent a pitying glance as his words slowly sink in. “You know where to find me. And Jones, dear? Try not to take so long this time around.”

The man splutters incoherently as Napoleon winds his way back to his apartment. When the folder inevitably arrives later, he’ll do his best not to smirk.

Solo takes in the empty flat with a sigh. Gaby must have gone to bed… and with the rest of the wine, by the looks of it. It saddens him (the Bordeaux, not the girl). Wining and dining the mechanic with a Château Lafite Rothschild and truffle risotto—it was by far the classiest welcome he could offer her. _No one_ could accuse Solo of being a poor host.

But, given the circumstances, he reasons that Gaby's early retirement to her room is probably for the best.

The American isn’t in the mood for entertaining, and for once, is perfectly content with silence. He prepares himself a plate of cold risotto and takes a seat. When Sanders’ words come back to him, he loses his appetite immediately.

Napoleon gets up and hurries to his room: a man on a mission. He rifles through his suitcase for the bottle of _Wódka Wyborowa_. He had planned to save it for a special occasion, maybe even gift it to the mechanic, but right now, he needs something a lot stronger than coffee... and there's no way he plans on sharing this one.

Solo nurses his drink (and the beginnings of a tension headache) when there’s a knock at the door. Or, more accurately, when there’s a _thundering_. He dimly thinks he hears Gaby curse in the background—no doubt, startled by the noise.

“It’s just Jones,” he calls in the general direction of her room. “Go back to sleep.”

He barely cracks opens the door before a thick folder is shoved at him. The man’s heavy footsteps retreat down the hall.

Napoleon downs his glass and settles more comfortably into his seat, opening the Russian’s file with a tired sigh.

 _Okay, Comrade, let’s see what skeletons are hiding in_ your _closet._

 

* * *

 

For a terrifying moment, she forgets where she is. The pounding on the door brings back memories of the _Stasi_ and their _inoffizielle Mitarbeiter_. She scrambles to think of who might have turned her in, how they possibly could have found her here. Hadn’t Waverly promised to protect her?

An accented baritone carries into her room and she stiffens. It takes her a minute to place the voice… the American. _Solo_. She is in West Berlin now, out of the clutches of Soviets and secret informants.

But is she safe?

Gaby blinks away the rest of her disorientation and takes in the unfamiliar room around her. The alcohol and fatigue had lulled her into a merciful, drowsy haze, but now a new surge of adrenaline floods through her. She won’t be getting any more sleep tonight.

The mechanic stares up at the ceiling and lets the torrent of thoughts wash over her. She’s not in any mood to fight it. Her mission—and maybe even her cover—have potentially been compromised. Not just by the CIA or the KGB, but by _herself_. Gaby curses her carelessness. She can only imagine what Waverly would say if he were here.

 _Training_.

For one heart-stopping moment, Gaby had assumed the worst. But Solo had only meant it as a compliment. A joke even. Still, she needs to be extra careful going forward. She and the American would be partners—she scoffs again at that—for the foreseeable future. At least until they found her father.

She aches at the thought of him.

Solo had painted a vivid picture of her father’s life without her. She knew Udo had gone to work for the Americans, knew he had been well-compensated for it, but had never thought of it as being so… domestic.

The man seemed to have everything: the job, the house, the car, the dog. All he was missing was a white-picket fence.

And a family.

 _But_ , Gaby wonders bitterly, _what was a long-lost daughter compared to the American dream?_ She had known it all along… the man _didn’t_ have an incentive to leave. Old wounds reawaken with the newest cracks in her heart.

Gaby forces down the messy thoughts and messier emotions. All that does, though, is trade one evil for another, and soon enough, her mind turns to the Russian.

As much as it pains her to admit it—and believe her, it does—Solo had been right. Gaby knows the man hadn’t been trying to harm her. Stop her and capture her, of course, but not hurt her if he could help it.

She thinks he even commanded the guards to hold their fire, at least as far as it concerned her. Gaby tries to dismiss it: the man needed her alive and a shootout was an unnecessary risk. But the doubt leaves her shaken.

Gaby had smiled at him.

Despite his carefully guarded expression, a sliver of honesty had still managed to break through. And the mechanic can’t say for certain whether it was only the fear sending a shiver down her spine.

When their eyes first met, Gaby had expected to see cruelty and malice, a blood-curdling hatred. A savage straight from her nightmares. What she got instead was uncertainty. The Russian had looked at her like _she_ was the dangerous one.

Like she could hurt him.

Against all instinct and better judgment, Gaby had smiled at the man. The gunshots rang out seconds later and she witnessed first-hand the threat he truly posed. But try as she did, the mechanic couldn’t see a monster.

It has always been so easy for her to demonize the Russians. Gaby’s hatred and fear of all things Soviet has _never_ been in question.

Until now.

The man’s face haunts her when she closes her eyes. There he is, hanging over the death strip or filling up her rearview mirror. And there he is, staring back at her with those startled, blue eyes...

Gaby snaps out of her reverie with a jolt.

She frowns. The shadows have lengthened on the walls and a late night chill is creeping in. Her body feels stiff from its prolonged and unnatural stillness as a new type of fear grips her.

How long has she been like that? How much time did she lose?

_How had she not realized it was happening?_

For the second time tonight, Gaby feels worlds away from reality. She kicks off the covers and stumbles out of her room. Even Solo’s company would be preferable right now.

And who knows? Maybe he’s hiding another bottle of wine somewhere.

Instead, Gaby finds the American slumped over the table, dozing over the scattered contents of a folder. She gently shakes his shoulder.

“Solo, come on. Go to bed.”

The mechanic pulls him to his feet, freezes when she spies the Russian’s photo. “What’s all this?”

“Bit of light reading.” He shuts the folder before she has time to react. What little she does see makes her stomach turn. “No peeking, Teller. It’s classified.”

Solo’s voice is thick, but not entirely from sleep. Gaby frowns, finds the empty bottle under the table.

“ _Polmos_. You’ve been holding out on me,” she says as she shows it to him. She tries to keep her tone light, but Solo’s disheveled appearance disturbs her. What had happened with his handler to make him like this?

Solo huffs. Petulant. “I served you a Château Lafite Rothschild. An _exceptional_ vintage.”

Gaby chuckles despite herself. “And it was. Truly. Now, come with me.” She grabs his arm and starts to tug the American towards his room. He shuffles unsteadily after her, still clutching the folder.

She pushes Solo to sit on his bed and drags his suitcase over to him. “Can you manage the rest?”

He nods and Gaby breathes a sigh of relief. The man blinks at her in confusion, trying to make sense of something. He points a wobbly finger at her.

“Were you sleeping in _that_?”

Gaby looks down at her blouse and capris with a start. She gears up to fight, but something in Solo’s face softens her.

“Don’t have much of a choice, do I?” He frowns at her. “Besides, I wasn’t sleeping, so you don’t need to worry.”

The American looks like he wants to protest, but he nods again, accepting her words at face value. He clumsily slips off his tie, undoes his cuffs, and removes his shoes.

With a heavy sigh, the man sprawls onto his back as Gaby turns to leave.

“You could stay, you know.”

She smirks in response. “Is this really the time for a seduction?”

“Only if you wanted,” he says, eyes still closed, “which you don’t. But you’re lonely and in a strange place. It helps to know there’s someone close by.”

Gaby is quiet a moment. Any trace of smugness is now gone. “Good night, Solo.”

The mechanic switches off the lights and stealthily reaches for the Russian’s file. Solo had dropped it carelessly on the dresser... he isn't going to miss it tonight and she would return it before he even realized it was gone.

“You don’t want to read it.”

She withdraws her hand, startled. How could he have known?

“Trust me on this one, Gaby."

She nods, even though the American can’t see it. Solo’s last words chase the closing door. “Just remember that you’re safe here and I’m right down the hall.”

The mechanic pads quietly to her own room and flips on all the lights. She keeps them on until the sun rises.

It is only when the shadows disappear that Gaby falls into a fitful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The “thousand-yard stare” refers to the blank, unfocused gaze of soldiers and other trauma victims. The term was coined from Tom Lea’s 1944 war painting, “Marines Call It That 2,000 Yard Stare”, which was published in a 1945 issue of Life magazine. It has strong associations with PTSD, but I’ll note here that it can exist independently of it.
> 
> During WWII, the prevailing terminology included “shell shock” (which was only recently being thought to have an emotional basis) and “combat exhaustion” (which, again, focuses solely on the physical responses to trauma). In 1948, the World Health Organization released its 6th International Classification of Diseases (ICD) and included mental health disorders for the first time. “Acute situational maladjustment” was the precursor to what we now know as PTSD and was divided into three types: “abnormal excitability under minor stress”, “combat fatigue”, “operational fatigue”.
> 
> For the story, the current diagnosis would be “Gross stress reaction”, introduced in 1952 in the first edition of the United States’ psychiatric manual, the Diagnostic and Statistic Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-I). It’s classified as a “Transient Situational Personality Disorder”, meaning that it can be ‘reversible’ and occurs in those with no pre-existing mental conditions. The situational part refers to “severe physical demands” or “extreme emotional stress” as a result of combat, and notably, civilian catastrophe.
> 
> The PIE model was associated with the military’s re-discovery of “forward psychiatry”—which was developed in WWI and which constituted a variety of “preventative and therapeutic interventions”. Rather than a medical treatment, it was seen as an extension of military leadership: a way to keep the soldiers fit to fight and to return as many of them to the frontlines as soon as possible. The goal here is active suppression of fear rather than working through emotions.
> 
> PIE is credited to Thomas Salmon, the US Surgeon General of that time. The model is simple: treat soldiers as close to the frontlines as possible (Proximity), as quickly as possible (Immediacy), and with the assurance/pressure that they would return to their unit soon (Expectancy). The other step, Simplicity, refers to taking care of basic needs such as rest, hydration, hunger, and hygiene.
> 
> Characteristic of PTSD (or, in this case, an Acute Stress Disorder—the distinction is in the timing) is the exaggerated startle response (which Solo mistakes Gaby’s ‘training’ reaction for) and the dissociative episodes. Dissociation, at its most innocuous would be akin to daydreaming and at its most severe, would be Dissociative Identity Disorder. Gaby’s mind is coping by “zoning out”, except she doesn’t have much conscious control over it. We see something similar in the movie itself with Gaby’s “Blue Screen of Death” moment (see the TV Tropes entry “Heroic B.S.O.D.”) after her phone call with Waverly.
> 
> The wine Solo serves is a Château Lafite Rothschild, one of the most expensive wines in the world. A huge thank you to rebelliousrose for sharing her expertise! :)
> 
> The Polski Monopol Spirytusowy or Polish Spirits Monopoly (Polmos) refers to the 60-year state-owned monopoly of alcoholic beverages. It was nationalized by the People’s Republic of Poland after WWII and became one of the country’s leading vodka producers. The particular brand here is Wódka Wyborowa (“Excellent” Vodka) which has the distinction of being the first vodka brand to become an international trademark (1927). By the 1960s, the brand constituted more than 60% of vodka exports to the UK.
> 
> The inoffizielle Mitarbeiter were the Stasi's “informal collaborators”. As many as 1 in 90 East Germans (civilians) were believed to be working for the secret police!
> 
> JFK’s speech was delivered on Monday, June 10, 1963 as a Commencement Address at American University and centered on US and Soviet relations, namely the conflict around nuclear testing and a proposed arrangement “for a direct line between Moscow and Washington, to avoid on each side the dangerous delays, misunderstandings, and misreading of the other’s actions which might occur at a time of crisis”. And suddenly, the collaboration between the CIA and KGB seems a lot more plausible… stay tuned! :)


	5. War Need Not Be Inevitable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sanders and Oleg strike a deal, Solo and Illya formally meet, and Gaby has an adventure. :)
> 
> Chapter title taken from JFK's American University Commencement Speech: "Peace need not be impractical and war need not be inevitable."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your patience! Research and rewrites... it can be a long process. Always appreciate you taking the time to read this and I love hearing your thoughts. Please don't hesitate to leave a comment. :)
> 
> Research notes are at the bottom. Please enjoy!
> 
> Also, for anyone interested, there is going to be a TMFU Holiday Gift Exchange this year! Sign-ups are open until October 9. You can sign up and read about the rules right here (https://archiveofourown.org/collections/TMFUGiftExchange2017/profile#faq) OR if you'd prefer to have the team explain it to you, I wrote a quick FAQ fic to help promote the exchange (https://archiveofourown.org/works/12085962). :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!

******Monday, June 10, 1963**

“A zipline. Very clever.”

The CIA spymaster chuckles darkly. “I was wondering when you’d call.”

“You still have the girl?”

“Don’t worry, Oleg. She’s in good hands.” His voice is smug, patronizing. Sanders will take any chance to lord his victory over the Soviets.

“Good enough to prevent all-out nuclear war?” The KGB handler pauses, lets his words sink in. “I was listening to your president speak tonight, Adrian.”

He could do without the reminder.

Sanders has been saying for _years_ that Kennedy—the traitor, the _coward—_ would be the death of them all. Oleg further confirms his suspicions, a mocking edge to his voice.

“All his talk of world peace, especially with the Soviet Union, was very affecting. I hear the Chairman was deeply moved.”

Sanders senses a minute change in the conversation. It’s subtle, but sure. A shift in the balance of power. He gives a noncommittal grunt, instantly wary of what the Russian will say next.

“And so,” Oleg rumbles, “in this newfound spirit of collaboration, I have been tasked by Nikita Khrushchev himself to broker arrangement between KGB and CIA.”

His grip tightens on the phone, bloodless. “Exactly what did he have in mind? Besides getting unrestricted access to our asset, of course.”

A mirthless chuckle comes from the other end. “As your Kennedy said, our countries would be the primary targets of a total war. It is thus in our _mutual_ interests to prevent new nuclear powers. Especially from governmentless third party.”

Sanders huffs, annoyed more than impressed.“You know about the Vinciguerras.”

“Enough to pursue Dr. Teller with or without your help. But it would be a sign of good faith, no, to work together on this?”

The American knows a losing battle when he sees one. “As long as you keep the British out of it.” Sanders scoffs, only half-joking. “Or should I expect a call from Macmillan too?”

“ _T_ _hat_ will be entirely up to your president. But since he has already given us his approval, I think this will be our little secret.”

Oleg went behind his back, the sneaky Soviet son of a—

“This call is merely formality, Adrian. Our fates have been sealed ever since the Teller girl crossed the border.”

“But, I assure you,” the Russian adds, with no small degree of pride, “this will not be a one-sided partnership. We have valuable intelligence on the Vinciguerras’ organization as well as intimate knowledge of the bomb-making process. _And_ , as token of goodwill, we are also sending our best agent.”

Sanders snorts. “You mean the one currently stuck in the minefield?”

“He has never failed us before. After tonight, he will not be likely to do so again.”

Sanders doesn’t doubt it. The threat hangs heavy in the air.

“By all means, teach your man a lesson, Oleg, but we still need him in one piece. I assume we’ll be meeting tomorrow? Show each other all our cards?”

The Russian laughs. “Perhaps not all of them. You will handle the arrangements?”

“I’ll call with the particulars later.”

“Good night, Adrian. Be sure to thank your Kennedy for me.”

The phone slams back into its cradle. Sanders rubs his temples, aghast.

This partnership is a temporary truce, a band aid—only the president is too stubbornly naive to see it. He knows the Russians won’t _hesitate_ to stab them in the back the second they recover Dr. Teller.

If Kennedy won’t do what is best for their country, then _he_ will. And there’s not a snowball’s chance in _hell_ that he’ll let the Soviets win the arms race.

Sanders grimaces, pours himself a drink. The door opens and Jones nervously looks in. “Washington’s on the other line, sir.”

The spymaster knocks back his scotch, and, for the second time tonight, prepares to make a deal with the devil.

 

* * *

 

**Tuesday, June 11, 1963**

Illya jams his shaking hands firmly inside his pockets. He stalks through the park, bone-weary and cheerless from spending his night at the Wall.

His shame is the only thing keeping him on his feet.

Torturous hours of standing stockstill in a minefield had turned into torturous hours of standing in the dark and cold. His instructions were to _wait_ , so he did.

The sun was already rising when the Zaporoschez finally pulled up next to him. Illya didn’t know the driver and asked no questions as he climbed in. No matter where he would be taken, Illya had decided to go willingly.

Like a lamb to slaughter, perhaps, but didn’t he deserve it?

The relief flooded through him regardless when they arrived at his temporary apartment. It seemed Illya would live to fight another day.

He had collapsed fully-clothed onto his bed and shortly, cruelly after, the phone rang. Oleg’s voice had been a razor-edged growl.

“Cafe Gustav. Half an hour.”

The line went dead before Illya could respond.

Now, Illya makes his way through the park and wills himself to calm down. He can’t afford another misstep with his handler.

He spots the public restroom and heads towards it. Running the water over his hands, he knows, should quell the worst of his tremors.

Illya freezes as soon as he enters. He locks eyes with the American agent and the red haze bleeds— _hemorrhages—_ into his vision. The source of all his troubles standing right before him. Close enough to touch. Close enough to—

“Kuryakin.”

Illya looks up, startled. Embarrassment surges through him when he sees Oleg. So much for avoiding any missteps.

His handler chides him and Illya is vaguely aware that he still has Solo in a chokehold. He shoves the man off of him, more angry at himself than the American. It is only then that Oleg’s words sink in.

“What does _that_ mean?”

At least Illya isn’t the only one left in the dark.

“He said, ‘don’t kill your partner on your first day.’” He turns to look at the speaker: a man he hadn’t even noticed until now. He must be Solo’s handler.

“I know what he said. What does it mean?”

The CIA spymaster shrugs. “Why I asked Oleg to come here early. Help break the news.”

“And that is _also_ why,” his handler adds, “I _specifically_ instructed my agent to meet us at the Cafe.”

All eyes swivel to look at Illya. He scowls. “Was unaware of your plans.” Through tightly gritted teeth, he manages to choke out an apology.“Sorry.”

The American agent smiles graciously. “Shall we get going then? I’m sure we have a lot to talk about.”

 

* * *

 

To his credit, Solo is taking this new arrangement in stride.

He listens dutifully, appears to be completely absorbed in the intelligence on the Vinciguerras. In reality, though, the higher quality, color photographs of Victoria are what have his attention.

The blue-eyed femme fatale stares coolly up at him, an enigma _daring_ him to solve. Solo has never shied away from a challenge. He practically lives for the thrill of the chase.

There is, of course, the slight complication of the mechanic. He likes Gaby well enough, may even be a bit fond of her, but knows pursuing another woman (especially a married one) would reflect poorly on their covers.

Napoleon assumes he’ll be posing as her fiancé—Jack Deveny, the antiquities dealer who stole away with East Berlin’s greatest treasure. It’s a nauseating sentiment, but one in line with their marks’ interests.

He has to justify his relationship with Gaby _somehow_ , secure himself an “in” with the uncle, and appeal to the Vinciguerras’ lavish sensibilities.

Fiancé it would have to be.

Solo has it all planned out. He had been pursuing a lead in Berlin—no doubt goods long-confiscated by the Nazis—when he had gotten lost. He stopped by a nearby garage to ask for directions where he met the feisty female mechanic. After a whirlwind romance, he had convinced her to run away with him.

Gaby had hidden inside a crate, alongside his other ‘acquisitions’, and he had smuggled her into the West.

It was daring, romantic, with just enough shades of gray to intrigue the crime family. All that’s left to do now is figure out how to refer to Gaby as “precious cargo” without gagging… or having his eyes gouged out later.

“You, Solo, are to investigate Victoria and Alexander Vinciguerra.”

That’s heartening. At least now he has a legitimate reason to get acquainted with the blonde. A double date, perhaps?

Leave the American to do the schmoozing and the KGB agent to his—he sneaks a glance across the table at the scowling Soviet— _brooding_.

“Our Russian friend,” Sanders continues, “will focus on Miss Teller and her Uncle Rudi.”

Solo’s head snaps up, wonders if he heard that correctly. What must the KGB have sacrificed to secure the role for their agent?

He frowns.

Who was ever going to believe that a strong-willed German girl like Gaby would end up with a Russian? Especially _that_ Russian?

This is terrible, dangerous. Almost nothing Solo had seen in the man’s file would inspire confidence in such a scenario. The Russian rose through the KGB’s ranks on account of his physicality, his intelligence, his sheer force of will.

 _Not_ his social graces.

The man is tailor-made for the shadows—surveillance work and the looming threats of the periphery. He is the muscle, the unspoken warning. He is most emphatically _not_ meant for the spotlight.

There’s an uncertainty, a foreboding, that frays at Solo’s nerves. While he is relieved that Gaby won’t be paired with a _total_ brute, the man’s well-documented psychoses and temper worries him.

Still, he can’t help but note the way the Russian’s eyes widen at the news. He seems caught off-guard, surprised, maybe secretly even… pleased.

Solo thinks back to his conversation with the mechanic last night, analyzes his revelations and her reactions. There’s a spark of _something_ on her end—whether Gaby recognizes it or not—and it seems more than reciprocated by the Russian.

The American huffs, incredulous.

Maybe they _could_ pull this off after all.

 

* * *

 

The briefing passes in a blur.

Illya hadn’t been given a folder… he knows the lion’s share of the intelligence and is already well-versed in the science and construction of atomic weaponry. When he sees the American uncover the mechanic’s photo, though, he immediately takes notice.

He smiles inwardly now that he has a name to go with it. _Gabriella Teller_. It suits her. The name is elegant and… vibrant. And it pairs well with his own. Gabriella and Illya.

His heart still thumps erratically at this new assignment. _Naturally_ , he and the mechanic would need to pose as an engaged couple. There would be no question about it.

And _so_ , Miss Gabriella Teller would pose as the future Mrs. Gabriella Kuryakin. He couldn’t use his real name, of course, but that’s a minor detail.

“We’ll leave you two to get acquainted.”

As if on cue, the entire cafe empties, leaving Illya alone with Solo. He barely blinks when _everyone_ around him turns out to be a spy.

They _were_ in Berlin after all.

What does surprise Illya is the camaraderie (however superficial) between his superior and the American’s. “Give my regards to Nina,” the man had said. So he knew about Oleg’s wife, maybe even knew her personally.

There was no implied threat in the comment either, no warning sign for Oleg to hide or protect her later. It was simply a social nicety. Perhaps even a sincere one.

It gives Illya a tiny (and up until now, forbidden) spark of hope. Maybe his career _could_ extend beyond his active duty. And _maybe_ he too could have a real fiancée in place of a pretend one…

He is suddenly acutely conscious of Solo staring at him: a strategist sizing up his opponent. Seated across from the American, Illya can almost pretend like it’s a game of chess.

He’s not going to wait for Solo to make the first move.

“Obviously, I was briefed about you: your corrupt and criminal background. Until you were caught and the CIA blackmailed you into working for them.”

There’s not even the slightest hint of surprise or embarrassment. In fact, the American seems thoroughly nonplussed. Illya decides to twist the knife in deeper.

“But what interests me, given your profile, is what would motivate you to become the CIA’s most effective agent? I concluded it must be to counteract the humiliation of knowing your balls are at the end of a very long leash held by a very short man.”

Shame is the most likely explanation, the _only_ explanation Illya has ever known or thought to consider.

As if reading his thoughts, the American launches his own counterattack. “I’m sure you understand humiliation. Better than most.”

“Really? How so?” Illya’s tone is level, but there’s a flicker of apprehension blistering inside of him.

He can barely hear Solo over the roaring in his ears. The words are warped, distorted, but each one lands like a bullet at point blank. The shrapnel is splintering within him, shattering his self-control. But. He. _Must_. _Stay. Calm_.

Illya’s career—and any hope he now has of a life beyond it—depends on it. On this case, this agent, this… partnership, ill-conceived as it is.

In the end, Illya settles for flipping the table over. Plates and cutlery go airborne and Illya imagines the chess pieces scattering in every direction as well.

He’s just been on the receiving end of a Fool’s Mate… disgraceful. But that seems to be his new _modus operandi_ these days.

Illya glowers murderously at the American, and, before his ticking fingers can cause considerably more _permanent_ damage, he tugs on his jacket and storms off.

“See you tomorrow,” Solo calls after him.

 

* * *

 

Gaby has been left largely to her own devices—no Solo, no secure way of contacting Waverly, no distractions. Only an empty apartment. She had woken late and even attempted to take a nap, convinced that life might just be easier as a nocturnal animal.

After showering, Gaby had wandered aimlessly into the kitchen to find a brown bag filled with _pfannkuchen—_ from someplace called Cafe Gustav—and a note from Solo promising he’d be back later.

She sees her opportunity and seizes it. Finally, an _objective_ : find the Russian’s file. The curiosity burns within her: a thrilling, chilling dread of what she may discover.

But the American had taken every precaution.

Gaby searches the entirety of the apartment, stopping just short of rummaging through the American’s case for a hidden compartment. She’s certain Solo would have noticed, but that’s not what makes her reconsider.

Rather, it is the unpleasant associations she has with the Stasi and their home invasions— _inspections_ , they called them—that tempers her inquisitiveness.

Waverly can get the KGB agent’s file for her later. _Solo’s too_ , she thinks.

As the day wears on, Gaby’s patience continues to wear thin. The apartment is too quiet, too lonely. It is cold and stifling and she’s going to go _mad_ if she doesn’t go outside.

Gaby slips quietly out the front door… and straight into Agent Jones. “You can’t leave,” he barks.

“I didn’t realize I was a prisoner here.”

“You’re not.” But there’s a hesitance—a half-truth—buried inside. “Where were you going?”

She hadn’t thought that far ahead. “To the market,” she decides, with a shrug. “I need to eat.” The agent frowns at her. “We’ll get you what you need.”

The mechanic’s eyes flash angrily. “Considering you could hardly scare up a _toothbrush_ for me, forgive me if I have my doubts.” She stares down the man, determined. “Where’s your handler?”

“He’s not here.”

“So you’re in charge?”

Jones puffs out his chest importantly. “That’s right.”

“Then _act_ like it.” The man visibly deflates. Gaby side-steps him. “I’m going to the market with or without you. And you had better hope it’s _with_.”

For a moment, Gaby thinks she might have gone too far, but Jones relents. “Make it quick,” he grunts.

“I’m driving,” she counters. There’s a finality in her tone that shuts down his protests.

She is relieved to see that they’re not taking the cargo truck… but the Lloyd 300 isn’t necessarily an improvement.

Gaby tears down the streets, her passenger occasionally squeaking out directions. “You know what they say, Jones,” she chirps, “‘He who is not afraid of death, drives a Lloyd’. Especially a little _Leukoplastbomber_ like this one.”

She looks over at his bloodless face and points, all smiles. “You are a CIA agent. This must be _fun_ for you, yes?”

“Keep your eyes on the road,” he yells in response.

Her driving here makes yesterday’s car chase seem _tame_ by comparison. “There,” Jones finally gasps and  gestures weakly at the large, ornate building just up the road.

“The church?”

“It’s a market hall,” he gasps. “Arminius Market Hall.”

“ _Arminiusmarkthalle_ ,” she whispers. Impressed. As soon as the car parks, Jones nearly falls out in his haste to get away from her.

Gaby enters the covered market, wide-eyed in wonder. She flits between vendors, strikes up conversations, and lets herself be immersed in the life of a Westerner.

Jones shadows her all the while, anxiously trying to hurry her along. The mechanic refuses to be rushed, lingers extra long at the _leberkäse_ stand to spite him.

With a pointed clearing of her throat and even more pointed eye roll from Jones, the agent pulls out a handful of bills to pay for a loaf of the breadlike meat dish.

Gaby neglects to say that she still has her wallet on her. After everything she’s been through, she reasons, the CIA could buy her dinner.

The mechanic continues to wander around, picking up various ingredients along the way. When she finally ambles back to him, Jones snatches the groceries from her hands and ushers her back towards the car.

The day is growing long and she knows he can’t let either of them be found missing when his handler—or worse, _Solo_ , returned.

Gaby grins sweetly, wickedly at the agent as the car roars off again. She never asks for directions and he never supplies them, too focused on holding on for dear life.

The mechanic laughs out loud, euphoric, reveling in these stolen, _liberated_ moments.

Jones takes the steps to her apartment two at a time while Gaby practically floats along behind him. He throws open her door and sighs, relieved, that his counterpart still missing. He sets her bags down none too gently on the counter and turns to leave.

“Thank you,” Gaby says and she means it.

She’s almost deliriously giddy after her adventure. In a gesture that surprises them both, the mechanic gives Jones a friendly peck on the cheek. He turns red and mumbles his way out the door.

A smile tugs at Gaby’s lips. Without regard for watchful eyes or listening ears, she dances as she cooks, unabashedly belts out the few long-forbidden Western songs she’s learned in secret.

She may drop a word or miss a note here and there, but isn’t that what freedom is all about?

 

* * *

 

The sun sets long before Napoleon returns to the apartment, arms laden with his own spoils of war.

He’s taken aback by the surreal sight that greets him: Gaby wearing his apron and slaving away in the kitchen. Well, not _slaving_. She looks far more cheerful than he’s ever seen her.

“Perfect timing, Solo.”

“What’s all this?”

“ _Leberkäse_ ,” she says, setting a plate in front of him. He balks at the name.

“Liver cheese?”

Gaby tuts at him. “It’s _meatloaf_.”

 _If you say so_. He’s still trying to make sense of the the scene before him.

“You cooked dinner.”

“You have questions.” The mechanic smiles at him. “I convinced Jones to take me to the market. Maybe ‘threatened’ is the better word.”

“Why?”

Gaby shrugs. “It was my turn to cook.”

Napoleon looks down at the _leberkäse_ appraisingly. “You _made_ this?”

“I bought it. But I _did_ make _versunkener apfelkuchen_ for dessert.” He watches as she serves up a third plate. Off his look, she explains, “For Jones. Finish setting the table for me?”

“I’ll do my best,” he promises, as she heads down the hall.

Solo folds the napkins intricately and pulls the _Paulaner_ bottle from one of his bags. It’s the most innocuous thing he’s picked up today and a much more reasonable expenditure than yesterday's Bordeaux. He's learned his lesson the hard way, and after last night, is not eager for a repeat performance.

The rest of his acquisitions, the more… _unusual_ items in his current possession are from his trip to the CIA’s West Berlin station.

Gaby returns a moment later and beams at the table in approval. She looks curiously at the glass he pours for her, but says nothing. Solo raises his own. “How about a toast?”

“To new partners,” she grins, all previous misgivings apparently forgotten.

“To new partners,” he responds. Solo’s stomach twists. He doesn’t have the heart to tell Gaby about their _other_ new partner.

Their glasses clink together.

Gaby takes a generous sip of the amber liquid. “ _Doppelbock_. You know you’re not supposed to drink this outside of holidays, don’t you?”

“I know you drink itfor _special_ occasions. Considering we didn’t get a chance to properly celebrate last night, I say this counts.”

She shrugs, appeased, and looks between him and the plate expectantly. Solo stares down at the pink _liver cheese_ before him. He bites the bullet.

It’s better than he anticipates, but the taste can’t make up for the name.

He smiles at her. “Not bad.”

Gaby gives him a pleased hum in response. "I'm sorry about your wine." Her tone suggests otherwise, but he'll accept the apology. "I  _did_ appreciate it."

"You did," Solo says slowly, "you just didn't  _appreciate_ it. But that's something we'll have to work on." His brow furrows—that sounded suspiciously like a promise.

The oven goes off and Gaby (mercifully) jumps up to retrieve her _apfelkuchen_. With a furtive start and a heady laugh, she realizes she’s still wearing his apron.

“I hope you don’t mind me borrowing it,” she says as she slips it over her head, drapes it on the back of her chair.

“Not at all.”

Napoleon frowns when he takes a better look at her. She’s wearing the same clothes as yesterday, a little crumpled, almost as if she…

“You slept in that.”

“We already went over this.”

Solo stands. “You’ll borrow from me tonight—I _insist_. We’ve made plans to replenish your wardrobe tomorrow, unless you’d rather we go now—”

“All the shops are closed, Solo. It’s fine.” And, despite everything, he believes her.

He’s not sure what’s behind this sudden graciousness, eventually chalks it up to some form of catharsis: a taste of the freedom she’s been so long denied.

That reminds him...

“This is for you.” He pulls the small metal tube from his jacket pocket and tosses it to her.

“Lipstick?” She gives him an odd look. Her smile wavers.

“It’s a gun. Single-fire. 4.5 millimeter round. _Do_ be careful with it.” He neglects to mention that it’s a prototype… modeled after the KGB’s own “Kiss of Death” pistols.

Gaby laughs, then realizes he’s being serious. “Thank you, Solo.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Napoleon has his reservations about the Russian, especially around the mechanic, but now Gaby won’t be _completely_ unarmed. This would be her equalizer against the giant Soviet.  After all, it doesn’t take any strength to pull a trigger.

Gaby fiddles with the little cylinder, mouths an apology at his anxious expression. She tucks the gun into the pocket of her capris. “So,” she says, grinning, “how was your day?”

He smiles, almost sadly, at her. “Let’s skip the shop talk tonight. In the morning, you and me can go back to being spies—or _whatever_ it is you are—and you can ask me all the questions you want.”

She arches an eyebrow at him. Playful, but wary.

“What should we be tonight then?”

“Whatever you’d like, Gaby.”

She nods, pleased by his deferral. Her voice softens when she comes to a decision.

“How about friends?”

“I think we can manage that.”

They smile at each other, genuine, and eat their meal in companionable silence. Gaby is almost _shy_ when she serves up the apple cake. “My father’s recipe. Not Udo’s, my… other father’s.”

It’s chewier than Solo may have liked, but there’s something warm and comforting about it just the same. “Tastes like home,” he says, much to her delight.

The pair spend the rest of the night talking of light matters and personal ones—nothing of consequence or substance, but which feel good to finally share.

The _doppelbock_ finished, they part ways for the night—Gaby in Solo’s oversized pajamas and Solo with a teasing grin and cheesy one-liner. Her laughter echoes after him.

The morning would sober them both to their new realities. But until the sun rose, they were free to keep pretending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JFK’s Commencement Address is remarkable not only for its message of attainable, sustainable world peace, but for how it advocates a more respectful and understanding relationship with the Soviet Union. The sound bites used in the film introduced the Cold War conflict well, but it removed the intent of the speech as well. Take this quote as just one example: “No government or social system is so evil that its people must be considered as lacking in virtue. As Americans, we find communism profoundly repugnant as a negation of personal freedom and dignity. But we can still hail the Russian people for their many achievements—in science and space, in economic and industrial growth, in culture and in acts of courage.” 
> 
> JFK kept the content of his speech a secret from the CIA, the Pentagon, and the State Department. His opinions and advocacy for peace were practically heretical to these organizations (particularly the CIA) and they had been severely at odds regarding foreign policy for years. Journalist Richard Starnes in The Washington Daily News reported that "If the United States ever experiences a [coup], it will come from the CIA and not from the Pentagon."
> 
> But JFK’s speech was extremely well-received by the rest of the world. Chairman Khrushchev really was deeply moved by Kennedy’s words and called it “the greatest speech by an American president since Roosevelt.” This kickstarted a fascinating and complex friendship between the two, including a secret correspondence by way of a top Soviet spy in Washington—KGB agent Georgi Bolshakov. Both leaders were seeking peace, but were surrounded by those advocating war and it’s incredible how their dynamic played out.
> 
> Macmillan was the British Prime Minister and a frequent ally to Kennedy, often working with both JFK and Khrushchev. I included it for the foreshadowing/irony of MI6’s later involvement in the story, but also because it wouldn’t be a logic jump that if Kennedy and Khrushchev were working together, Macmillan would probably be close by. JFK even references in his speech about the three individuals making plans for a nuclear test ban treaty.
> 
> The Zaporoschez is Soviet car that was used by the KGB for “light reconnaissance work or information gathering.” The Lloyd 300 is a German car with as almost as dire a reputation as the Trabi. The saying “he who is not afraid of death, drives a Lloyd” is a real one… and the “Leukoplastbomber” sobriquet refers to the owner’s habit of needing to repair the car’s body with a sticking plaster called LEUKOPLAST. 
> 
> Berlin has the reputation of being the City of Spies (or the ‘espionage capital of the world’). Makes sense given that is it the the literal and figurative epicenter of East and West.
> 
> A Fool’s Mate is also known as the 2-move checkmate. It’s very rare and capitalizes on a player’s inexperience or just immediately poor decision making. For someone like Illya, it truly would be disgraceful to lose that way.
> 
> The Arminius Market Hall is one of 14 covered markets in Berlin (of which only a handful are still left). The myth is that the architect intended to build a cathedral. It was heavily damaged in WWII, but was repaired in the 1950s. It’s located in Moabit which puts it relatively near the Berlin Wall.
> 
> Doppelbock or “double bock” is known as ‘liquid bread’ and is usually consumed for religious holidays (and for its original use, for when the monks would fast). Paulaner is a well-known, period-accurate brand. Leberkäse does mean “liver cheese” but it’s more of a mistranslation (“liver loaf” would be more accurate). The German version does use liver (normally it’s corned beef or pork), but there’s no cheese in it. Pfannkuchen are donuts also called “Berliners”—there’s an urban legend about JFK giving a speech and saying “Ich bin ein Berliner” which, rather than the intended “I am a citizen of Berlin”, meant “I am a Berliner” (i.e. a jelly donut). The versunkener apfelkuchen is a traditional German dessert (a ‘sunken’ apple cake).
> 
> The KGB “Kiss of Death” pistols were used by female spies during the Cold War. First discovered in ‘65, but I don’t think it’d be totally anachronistic to think they’d be around (at least in prototype form) during 1963. They shot a single 4.5 mm round and were concealed in lipstick tubes. Gotta love Cold War spy tech. :)


	6. I Don't Believe You, You're Not The Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya buys a ring, Gaby gets a new partner, and Solo picks up the pieces.
> 
> Chapter title from Roy Orbison's "Pretty Woman".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a beast... I'm having to split it into two (maybe three) parts. Fourteen pages and I'm not even halfway through my planned outline. Whoops.
> 
> A couple of notes: I have Illya refer to Gaby as 'Gabriella' during this chapter. It's a deliberate choice on my part (he's only seen her name in a file and is yet to have a conversation to learn her preferred name). Hope it doesn't throw anyone off!
> 
> I also updated chapters 4 and 5 to reflect the proper wine used in the film. As befitting a gentleman thief, Solo serves Gaby a bottle of one of the world's most expensive wines... an enormous thank you to rebelliousrose for her detective work and expertise! :) She is also a godsend when it comes to the world of fashion. I'm including her input in the end notes.
> 
> Lastly, it's been exactly one month since I joined AO3!!! Just wanted to thank all of you for being so kind and welcoming. I've loved getting to interact more with our little community and I'm so appreciative for all of you who have taken the time to read, give kudos, and leave comments! Truly, truly thank you. <3
> 
> Research notes at the bottom!

 

**Wednesday, June 12, 1963**

Gaby shuffles sleepily into the kitchen, head pounding and world spinning. She glares at the American who, impossibly, seems as rested and unruffled as ever. She can’t be too mad at him, though, when he hands her a mug of coffee and the remains of last night’s _apfelkuchen_.

Gaby manages to mumble a ‘thank you’—she’s not sure in which language—and takes a seat. Solo lets her eat in peace. He (wisely) gives her a few moments to collect herself.

“You’ll need to change soon,” he eventually says. The mechanic looks down at her clothes, vaguely aware that they don’t belong to her.

She’s wearing Solo’s pajamas.

Her mind struggles to keep up with his next words. “Bring or wear anything you want to keep.” She blinks slowly up at him. “We’re not coming back?”

“I’m afraid that this is where we part ways.”

Gaby feels the anxiety wrap its icy tendrils around her throat. A thousand questions rise and die upon on her lips. Solo must notice because he is quick to add, “This isn’t goodbye. Not by a long shot.”

“But what—”

“You’ll be under another agent’s care for the duration of the mission. We’re meeting him at the boutique.”

“And you?”

“Playing a supporting role in this little drama.” He winks at her. “Don’t worry, Gaby, you’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

Her head is swimming with this new information. _Why can’t I be with you?_ She wants to ask, but it feels childish, petty—a question she’s asked too many times over the last eighteen years.

“What can you tell me about him?” The mechanic finally asks.

Solo doesn’t answer her.

Instead, he plucks the empty mug from her hands to refill it. He procures a flask out of thin air and pours generously into the coffee. “Let’s burn that bridge when we get there.”

She scoffs at the mixed metaphor. Gaby ignores the outstretched mug in favor of taking the flask from the American. She downs its contents in one, eye-watering go. Her eyes flutter and she stifles a cough or two.

The man actually has the audacity to _laugh_ as she presses the flask against his chest. She heads back to her room to finish getting ready.

Dressed in her now familiar coveralls and scarf combination, lipstick pistol safely nestled in her pocket, the mechanic reunites with the American. He peers at her over the rim of his mug— _her_ mug, she notes.

Gaby grabs Solo by the arm and hauls him towards the door. There’s a tightness to her voice that betrays the nervousness she feels.

“Come on, Solo. Time to burn some bridges.”

 

* * *

 

 

Illya awakes extra early, though in truth, he’s hardly slept at all. The American’s phone call had disintegrated any chance of that: _Raffiniert_ boutique, 10 am. Meet and collect Miss Teller.

His new partner.

His _fiancée_.

The word still sends a thrill down his spine. It is a dangerous word, one he has only recently allowed himself to believe in. It is heavy with expectation, a promise he may never be able to deliver on. A future.

The word is an open flame—bright and beautiful and terrible—and, for once, Illya is willing to risk getting burned for it.

The morning can’t come soon enough.

As agonizing as the wait may be, it does give Illya plenty of time to prepare himself. Plenty of time to _think_ , more like it. He scoffs at his fevered thoughts, the boyish nerves that electrify him. He is a live wire of unfamiliar emotions.

Illya wrangles his heart to yield to logic. To strategy. He plays out the scenarios in his mind like a game of chess, rehearsing hundreds of potential conversations and formulating plan upon contingency plan.

The possible ways that the mechanic could reject him or that he could go wrong parade endlessly before his eyes. He drives out those thoughts and redoubles his efforts to ensure things go _right_.

Illya doesn’t want Gabriella to merely tolerate him. He wants her to _trust_ him.

Perhaps more than trust.

That train of thought always sours before he can let himself get carried away by it. He knows what he and his country must represent to a young German woman, is aware that even _that_ may be woefully inadequate.

Despite it all, though, the mechanic had smiled at him. He holds onto that memory—conflicted as it may be—like a lifeline. He has had plenty of time the last two days to replay that scene, to think about those lips...

Illya clears his throat and steers his thoughts to a less provocative topic. He scans his apartment for inspiration. His suitcase catches his eye. The question of what he will wear today seems innocuous enough.

It brings its own set of crises.

Illya is well-aware of how deliberately he chooses (and re-chooses) his clothing. He justifies that it is for psychological reasons, and not _purely_ personal, ones. He’s trying to keep the negative associations with their initial encounter to a minimum.

That’s why Illya forgoes his usual flat cap and suede jacket—two strong visual cues that could ruin any chance the Russian has of… well, getting another chance.

He has been given a priceless opportunity to re-do his first impression. He _needs_ everything to be perfect _._

Illya abandons his travesty of a chess game without giving it a second thought. His mind is far too preoccupied to concentrate and he simply cannot fathom the patience to do so.

Before he realizes what he is doing, Illya is walking to retrieve the Tellers’ file from his room. So he can re-read it. Again. The muscle memory is almost shameful.

Illya smooths a hand over the first page, the one where Gabriella’s image has been reverently paper clipped at the top left corner. He resists the urge to smile at the photo and schools his expression into one of confident, mysterious brooding.

 _Ridiculous_.

He huffs and starts to go through the file, although he knows he can recite every mention of the mechanic from memory by now.

There is precious little about her… or precious little of what Illya _wants_ to know. The KGB, seeing her only as the means to an end, have spared little thought in gathering intelligence on her.

Her father, however, has his agency’s undivided attention. The file consists largely of his research, his career during and after the war, his life as a defector.

His _abandonment_ of Gabriella, he amends mutinously.

Government-intervention, or no, Udo had left his daughter a virtual orphan. It was inexcusable and weak and _selfish_ to condemn her to the harshness of East Berlin, when, all the while, he had been indulging in all the decadences of the West.

Illya’s blood is nearly boiling at the injustice. He glares at the grainy likeness of Dr. Teller. _You had_ better _be worth the pain you’ve caused my_ _fiancée._

He catches himself too late. As much as Illya would like to believe otherwise (and oh, how much he does), Gabriella is _not_ his fiancée. She is his mission.

And all missions end eventually.

Illya’s eyes dart instinctively to his watch, keenly aware of what his _own_ father had bequeathed to him: a dishonorable birthright that he still atones for. The familiar knotting in his stomach isn’t just from the paternal reminder, though. It’s from the time.

More specifically, it’s from the knowledge of what will happen in the next two hours and twenty-six minutes.

It is too early to go to the boutique, too early for most shops to be open even. But Illya can’t just _sit_ around doing nothing.

He fastidiously, if a bit sheepishly, assesses himself in the mirror, and heads for his newly-requisitioned Volga. It is considerably more spacious than the Trabi and has the prestige to go along with it.

Although Illya resists the urge to speed through the deserted streets, he still winds up at the jeweler’s far sooner than he’d intended.

The KGB’s best prowls menacingly in front of the closed shop. He’s almost worked himself into a frenzy by the time the owner arrives.

Unsurprisingly, the man is hesitant to approach the giant, scowling Russian. The key rattles unsteadily in the lock. Once the door is open, the shopkeeper flattens himself against the wall to let Illya pass by.

“ _Good morning_ ,” Illya says in clipped German. His natural accent must come through though because the man barely conceals his flinch. Illya stiffens, counts silently to ten, and switches to a more neutral language.

“I’m looking for a ring. For my fiancée. _Future_ fiancée,” he hastily corrects. Saying it out loud is like revealing his deepest, most intimate secret. _Maybe it is_ , he thinks.

Inexplicably, it also feels like the most natural thing he’s ever uttered. “Do you think you can help me?”

The jeweler, visibly more relaxed now, nods. He motions for Illya to join him at one of the display cases. “What’s her name?”

“Gabriella.”

“Beautiful,” the man responds and Illya can’t help but agree. The jeweler pulls out a tray for his inspection. “How did you two meet?”

The Russian pauses. He’s thought of a _future_ with the mechanic, but he hadn’t considered a _past_. The silence lengthens, distressing the already anxious store owner. “My apologies, sir, I didn’t mean to pry—”

“It’s fine,” Illya assures him. He pretends to be distracted by the rings, while the gears whir frantically in his mind. “I was travelling on business. She was on bad blind date. Boorish American. All style, no substance. _Very_ pushy.”

The other man hums knowingly and silently prompts him to continue. Illya is taken aback by it. He’s not used to anyone caring about what he has to say. “I felt it was my duty to rescue her. By the time I could get close enough, though, they had already left.”

The man tuts sympathetically, giving Illya the courage to keep talking. “I saw her driving a few minutes later. We were heading in same direction, so I eventually caught up to her at streetlight. I looked over and she smiled at me.”

He hates how much his voice softens at that. He clears his throat. “I didn’t notice the American was still with her,” Illya admits. “But she turned it into a challenge. A _race_. Naturally, I could not say no.”

“Naturally.”

He chuckles, honestly beginning to enjoy himself. “So then I chased her all around Berlin—”

“She is _German_?”

The conversation screeches to a halt. It snaps Illya back to reality. To wistful, impossibly reality. His voice is a low rumble as he edges closer to the man, fingers itching to drag him over the display case. “Is that problem?”

“It is unusual,” the shopkeeper says. He seems to consider the question a moment, before shrugging. “But love is love.”

The Russian nods, mollified. He can barely concentrate on the rings, his mind stuttering over that one word. _Love_.

_Is he is even capable of it?_

Illya thinks of the mechanic’s smile, the indomitable pride he senses in her, and decides that, _yes_ , he thinks it is.

“And what does your Gabriella like?”

It isn’t the question that catches him off-guard so much as its wording: _his_ Gabriella.

Illya draws from what little he _does_ know about the mechanic and fills in the blanks. “Something simple. But still elegant. Traditional, maybe, but with modern twist.”

He nods to himself as he thinks. “It would need to be delicate as well. She has small hands. Slender.” The tips of his ears are starting to burn, but the jeweler doesn’t seem to notice. Rather, the man is preoccupied with sifting through a number of trays and drawers.

He excuses himself to go look in the back and returns moments later with a triumphant expression. He offers the ring to Illya.

The band is gold, slim, with sapphire accents and a small diamond on either side. A larger diamond sits on top. High-quality without being ostentatious.

Illya is immediately taken with it. It reminds him _just enough_ of his mother’s engagement ring (an old family heirloom) to make his chest ache. “This is Russian?”

The jeweler smiles. “From the Romanov era. It’s the only one we have.”

He doesn’t need to explain why.

Illya hums, pleased, as he studies the ring in greater detail. “It’s perfect,” he declares. There’s almost a note of _shyness_ in the admission.

The shopkeeper beams in response. “I’ll get a box for you.”

“No box.”

Illya shifts his weight between his feet, avoids the man’s curious look. “I won’t be needing one.” He pauses, before adding, “Thank you.”

He doesn’t so much as _blink_ at the price. His Soviet sensibilities seemingly unphased by it. _It is entirely worth it_ , he reasons, _to get the right one_.

 _For the mission_ , that is.

Illya could always keep the ring afterwards, just in case. Or maybe, Gabriella would want it. As souvenir. To remember him by.

The thought alternately saddens and consoles him. He hardly realizes when the jeweler holds the ring out to him again.

Illya moves to take it, but the man stops him. “It won’t be easy for the two of you.” His hand freezes in mid-air, daring the shopkeeper to explain himself.

“But if the feelings are there,” he continues, “you will find a way to make it work.”

The Russian swallows thickly. He finally finds his voice, attempting—of all things—levity. “Because love is love?”

“Because you are a good man and she is a strong woman.”

The jeweler presses the ring into Illya’s palm. He walks the speechless KGB agent to the door and extends his hand. Illya shakes it, his mind still catching up to his body.

“ _Thank you_ ,” Illya says, reverting to German when he finally recovers. “ _It was a pleasure to meet you.”_

“ _You too_ ,” the man replies in rusty, accented Russian. Illya’s lips curve into a surprised smile. He nods and—with the ring burning a hole in his pocket—prepares himself to meet Gabriella.

 _His_ Gabriella.

 

* * *

 

The car ride is perhaps more tense than the first one they shared.

Napoleon sits beside Gaby in the passenger seat. She acknowledges his rare directions with rarer nods. Even though she doesn’t say anything, her silence speaks volumes.

He knows better than to attempt small talk.

Driving seems to help her.

The American periodically glances at Gaby to take note of each minute change in her demeanor: a slight loosening of her grip on the steering wheel, a more relaxed set to her shoulders, an evening and deepening of her breaths.

She has calmed down by the time they arrive at the boutique. Gaby warily reads the flowing pink script above her. “ _Raffiniert_ ,” she intones dully, arching a skeptical brow at him.

Napoleon holds the door open for her.“Let’s see how ‘refined’ _you_ can be, Miss Grease Monkey.”

He smiles at Gaby’s scowl and follows her in. Or he _would_ , if she didn’t freeze in the doorway. Napoleon side-steps her. He scrutinizes the mechanic.

A slight blush colors her cheeks and Solo can see her hands balling into fists within her pockets. He _really_ hopes she’s not fiddling with the tiny pistol he gave her.

Napoleon follows her now-averted gaze… the shop attendants still survey Gaby and her grimy coveralls with slightly pained expressions.

Their reflexive wincing clearly has not gone unnoticed.

The American feels a sudden surge of protectiveness for the mechanic. He politely, if coolly, greets the two clerks and guides Gaby further into the boutique, a reassuring hand ghosting the small of her back.

“Why don’t you take a seat?”

She nods at him and does, keen to look anywhere but at the attendants. “ _Besserwessi_ ,” he hears her mutter.

Solo squeezes her shoulder as he goes off to look at dresses.

“Quite the selection you have here,” he says approvingly. “But I think I can do you one better.” The women tilt their heads at him, quizzically.

Napoleon gives them a broad wink and sweeps his hand towards where Gaby is sitting. “The latest import from the Iron Curtain. She’s going to cause quite the stir, don’t you agree? With your expertise, of course.”

The clerks smile and instantly warm up to Gaby. The three begin to chat warmly in German while she gets her measurements taken.

For all her feigned indifference, Solo can see the yearning in Gaby’s eyes as she takes in the boutique. She is, perhaps for the first time in her life, surrounded by unrepentant luxury, a place where form triumphs over function.

Even a tomboy like the mechanic could appreciate the beauty around her.

It only makes it sting that much more when Solo hands her his first offering—a navy blue ensemble with matching jacket—and her face immediately falls.

He would love to dress the mechanic in brighter, more fashionable attire, but there is a very specific reasoning behind his sartorial selection.

The Patou that Gaby gingerly accepts from him borders on matronly. It is modest, muted. Very sober.

Very _Soviet_.

 _Perfect_.

With encouraging nods from the boutique attendants, the mechanic reluctantly trudges to the dressing room.

Solo gives her an award-winning smile when she clomps back out, barefoot and scowling. He eyes her appraisingly.

“You look lovely.”

“I _look_ like a secretary,” she scoffs. “And not the kind that makes wives nervous either.”

His grin fades as Gaby continues to tug on her jacket and inspect herself. There’s another flush rising in her cheeks, but this time, Napoleon doesn’t think it has anything to do with embarrassment.

“You expect my uncle to believe I can afford any of this? Or that I’d _want_ to?”

“I assume Rudi’s always thought of you as an aspiring little _wessi_.” Gaby’s glare could melt steel, but Solo meets it evenly. “It makes sense that you’d be embracing all that this side of the Wall has to offer.”

She doesn’t look convinced in the slightest.

“As for the cost, my superior has kindly agreed to cover all your expenses,” he says, “so there’s no need to worry about that.”

Gaby is shaking her head long before he finishes his sentence. “I’m not. I’m worried about _this_.” She gestures to her outfit. “ _This_ isn’t me. I’m a—what did you call it?—a grease monkey. Not some _Kasperle_ character.”

Marionettes begin to dance before Napoleon’s eyes. He can sympathize with the sentiment, but he needs her cooperation. Otherwise, there’s no telling how this mission will go. “Now, Gaby, that’s a bit unfair, don’t you—”

“You’re pulling all my strings, aren’t you? _Aren’t you?_ ”

Solo is appropriately cowed by that. “Thought so,” Gaby huffs and fumbles to secure the clasp on her necklace. He intervenes before her frustration can grow any further.

“Allow me.”

The mechanic grudgingly permits him to help her. _What an honor_ , Solo thinks, as he straightens it for her as well.

“When am I meeting my new puppeteer?”

“Your _partner_ , Gaby.” It’s a hollow rebuke. Solo checks his watch as the mechanic starts to put on her earrings. “He should be arriving at any minute.”

“I think it’s time you told me about him then.”

Napoleon hands her a pair of heels to try on and gentles her into a chair. She’s going to want to be seated for this.

“Well, to start, he’s not one of ours. He’s on loan from Khrushchev.”

Gaby searches his eyes for any trace of humor. She comes up empty. Realization dawns darkly on her. “America is _teaming up_ with Russia… Is this a _joke?_ ”

“It _should_ tell you how important this mission is. To everyone.”

Any attempts by the mechanic to appear intimidating are immediately undercut by her shoes’ high-pitched squeaking. She tests their fit, draws up to her full height. A head shorter than Solo, Gaby still manages to look down her nose at him.

“I’m not going back behind that Wall. And at the end of this, that’s what they’ll want.”

 _They_ , of course, being the Russians.

Napoleon can’t promise her citizenship or even political asylum, but he’ll fight like hell to get it for her. Even if it’s not through _strictly_ legal means.

The KGB would simply have to accept her fate as a defector. They owed her that much.

And speak of the devil… the third member of their little team has arrived. Solo chooses to ignore him, but keeps a close eye on him just the same. _Especially_ when the man looms silently behind an oblivious Gaby.

He can’t imagine _that_ going over too well.

“You don’t have to go anywhere that you don’t want to go. You’re the star of this show.” A _prima donna_ , not a puppet, is what he wants to say, but he’s not the one who’s going to be working with her.

Napoleon has to give the Russian some credit. The man knows how to burn bridges in truly  _spectacular_ fashion.

 

* * *

 

The words tumble out before he can stop them.

After a series of fits and starts, Illya had finally worked up the courage to enter the boutique. He caught sight of the mechanic and immediately, could tell something was wrong.

He could _feel_ the anger radiating from her slim frame, and instinctively, Illya’s rose along with it. He is her partner, her back-up. He closed the distance to stand behind her: a steady presence for the mechanic, an unspoken threat to the American.

He had frowned as he looked over her outfit. It is nearly _criminal_ how the man has dressed her, not to mention an egregious overstepping of his bounds.

Gabriella is _his_ fiancée, not the American’s.

The Russian shook his head. He may not know exactly what the young woman likes, but he’s certain it couldn’t be _that_. Patou is meant for old women, not someone so, so…

Illya couldn’t seem to find the words. So he did the worst thing he could have possibly done: he opened his mouth. “My woman would never wear anything like that.”

Gabriella whips around to face him, startled, and takes a step back. _Had he really been standing that close to her?_ He wonders as she edges closer to Solo.

His heart sinks at the break in her voice.

“What’s he doing here?”

“I told you,” the American drawls and Illya suddenly, sickeningly gets a better idea of what had angered the mechanic. “We’re teaming up with the Russians. Doesn’t get any more Russian than the Red Peril here.”

Illya glowers. The nickname can’t be doing him any favors, but retaliation—at least of the physical variety—is out of the question. His grip tightens behind his back as he wills himself to appear (relatively) harmless.

Miraculously, it seems to work.

The mechanic approaches him boldly, dark eyes burning into his. She holds his gaze unflinchingly, though it is Solo she is speaking to. “And why did he call me his woman?”

All the air seems to have left the room. Illya can’t meet her eyes, can hardly even think, let alone talk. This is _not_ how he had planned their meeting would go. The words that had felt so easy to say at the jeweler’s now seem foolish, forbidden.

“Because I am now your fiancé,” he eventually manages to mumble. He tries to offer the mechanic a smile, but seems to have forgotten how. Her expression quells any further attempts on his part.

The mechanic huffs out a laugh, incredulous. When she realizes he’s being serious, she starts taking off her jewelry. “No, no, no.” The necklace and earrings are thrown to the ground. “ _No._ ”

Illya accepts this display as his rightful punishment. He forces himself to not chase after her as she storms out. “Smoothly done,” the American snipes as he goes to clean up the damage.

If there’s ever a time for Solo to charm the mechanic, it is now. And Illya will be grateful for it.

He closes his eyes, suffers for his stupidity. Illya’s comment had been rude, careless, an inappropriate way to start their first conversation. He doesn’t blame her for reacting like that.

He still has a chance to make things right.

Illya picks up the discarded jewelry—warm from her skin. His fingers curl over them protectively before he returns them to the clerks.

He begins selecting a number of dresses for Gabriella: _simple, but elegant_ , he thinks, with a flicker of amusement. The pieces are well-structured, a mix of neutrals and bright colors, all meant to showcase her graceful physique.

He is sure the mechanic will like the dresses when she tries them on. He’s sure that he will too, though he is quick to clamp down on _that_ thought.

Gabriella, he thinks, deserves much better than Solo’s drab ensembles. She deserves much better than Illya too.

It knocks the wind out of him, a psychological suckerpunch.

Illya replays the jeweler’s words as he wrestles his inner demons. There are the ghosts of his past and the improbabilities of his future. The legacy he must protect and the legacy he must _create_ to ensure it.

And finally, there is this new chance before him—so cruel and so beautiful—to pretend that he is a good man.

A Russian architect engaged to a strong German woman. A couple who, despite the odds, have found a way to be together.

Illya clings to that thought as he assembles an outfit (complete with bubble hat and handbag) to be placed inside the dressing room for her.

The action calms him, _buoys_ his sinking soul. High fashion is one of his only non-threatening hobbies and he is eager to flex his sartorial muscles. Eager to show the mechanic  a different side of him.

The door opens and Illya’s heart swells to see her. _She came back_. The Russian gives her a proper smile this time, a mix of pride and relief coloring his voice.

“These dresses are all in your size.”

As she walks past him, Illya comes to a life-changing decision: if Gabriella doesn’t want to be _his_ just yet, then he could at least be _hers_.

In truth, he believes he already might be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The car Illya drives is a Soviet-made GAZ Volga, which was used by KGB agents who needed a more spacious vehicle than the Zaporoschez mentioned in the previous chapter. This would mainly be used for the aftermath of a wet work assignment (i.e. transporting the remains of two or three ex-agents). But for someone of Illya’s size and the fact that both he and Gaby will be transporting their luggage soon, I thought it’d be a good choice. The Volga is also famous for its use by the Soviet nomenklatura, or the bureaucratic powers that be (by appointment only from the local communist party).
> 
> Gaby’s two rings were designed and created specifically for the film by Ant Reineke of Studio 35. The first (described in this chapter) is a “Romanov 18th century style ring” while the second is “a 1960s pearl engagement ring”. For close-ups and CGI, a scaled up version of the bugged ring was made—it’s about 5 times the size of the original ring, so around bracelet sized. To read more and/or to see larger images of the rings, here’s the link: https://www.henleyherald.com/2015/08/20/henley-jeweller-commissioned-for-undercover-spy-rings-for-man-from-u-n-c-l-e-film/
> 
> The terms “wessi” and “ossi” described West and East Germans respectively. The word “Besserwessi” is actually a pun on the German word Besserwisser, meaning know-it-all. Besserwessi was used pejoratively to describe West Germans who felt superior to Ossi Germans. Fun fact, it was named the German Word of the Year in 1991.
> 
> Kasperle is a famous German puppet character that has its roots in the Italian Commedia dell’arte. Kasper (or Kasperle, the diminutive) is the protagonist and aided by a number of stock characters as he—with the help of the children in the audience—goes on adventures.
> 
> From the incredible rebelliousrose: "Patou is classic, and was more for middle-aged women, not the young mod that Gaby was going to become (at least until the Lagerfeld years). Russia was (and is) a huge consumer of haute couture amidst the upper classes; like, serious money being spent. There was also a tremendous rivalry between French and Italian designers (and everyone else was nowhere until the English Mary Quant and Carnaby Street ) for how the direction of fashion was going to go. Solo is, indeed, dressing Gaby in how he thinks someone dresses behind the Iron Curtain, but not the kind of fashion consumer a young architect and his fiancee would be.
> 
> Also, Paco Rabanne wasn't well-known until the mid-60's, so either Illya has a hell of an eye, or someone on the film failed research class. He was making jewelry for other designers in the early 60's, though. And it's entirely possible that that belt in the movie is a Rabanne".
> 
> The more you know... :)


	7. Missing the Mark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaby and Illya's get engaged, get on each other's nerves, and get to know each other. :)
> 
> Chapter title is a Chekhov's... pun?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! Thanks so much for reading. :) This is my longest chapter yet, and with the exception of the first installment, this one has the most narrative off-roading. Lot of blanks to fill in with this one and the next! This is also my first true Gallya chapter, so please let me know how I'm doing!
> 
> I seem to have a trend of posting on TMFU actor and character birthdays (Elizabeth Debicki, Armie Hammer, Gaby Teller). It's not entirely intentional, but anyway, Alicia Vikander turns 29 today!
> 
> Just one last PSA for this year's Winter Holiday Gift Exchange. Sign-ups close on Monday (October 9), so if you are interested in writing a 500 word minimum fic and receiving one in return, head on over to https://archiveofourown.org/collections/TMFUGiftExchange2017/profile! 
> 
> Research Notes are at the bottom. Again, special thanks to my research angel, rebelliousrose for her input on the 1960s fashion scene (her expertise can be found in the end notes of the previous chapter). Comments are dearly appreciated and always welcome... thanks for reading! :)

**Wednesday, June 12, 1963**

“You’re asking too much of me.”

Inside that boutique is a man that Gaby had never hoped to see again. She had finally made her peace with that night, smoothed out the creases in her cognitive dissonance. He was simply an anomaly, a curiosity that would fade with time.

But now, _now_ that same man is _here_ , standing over her like the Iron Curtain made flesh and declaring himself her fiancé. Everything about it is impossible.

Solo is _not_ talking his way out of this one.

Understanding burns bright and hot before those blue eyes ice over: coolly detached, wholly professional. The American smiles bracingly at her. “You’ll do fine.”

“I’m not the one you should be worried about.”

“I suppose not,” he concedes. “Peril might just surprise you, Gaby.” Solo casts a sly glance in her direction. “He’s already done so before.”

 _That was different_ , she wants to snap at him.

_Is it?_

“Do you trust him?” Her eyes rake over the CIA agent’s face for the tiniest sliver of honesty, anything that would betray what he knows he _should_ tell her.

“Do you trust _me_?”

Her tight-lipped silence is confirmation enough. Solo braves another smile at her as he holds open the door. “After you.”

Gaby squares her shoulders, takes a deep breath, and walks straight back into the lion’s den.

 

* * *

 

For a disorienting few seconds, Napoleon wonders whether he _hasn’t_ just entered the Twilight Zone.

The Red Peril appears to be right at home. He beams when he sees Gaby, and, _apparently_ , he’s even picked out some dresses for her to try on.

Solo frowns. What was that last part again?

_“Excuse me?”_

The American steps forward, confirms that that is _indeed_ the KGB’s top agent standing before him. He huffs. For a man looking _dead set_ on playing dress-up, Peril is almost comically arrogant.

“Soviet architect traveling to Rome would never dress his woman in the clothes you tried to put her in. You tried to dress her like someone on your side _thinks_ someone dress behind the Iron Curtain.”

And here he was starting to think the man might be smarter than he looks. “She’s _from_ behind the Iron Curtain.”

“That doesn’t mean she want to bring it with her.”

_Huh._

Napoleon knows the Vronskys and Karenins of Russian society were _mad_ for haute couture, but who would have guessed that the (seemingly) blue-collar Red Peril could be counted among them?

 _He just might surprise you, indeed_.

“We need two purses, please: an everyday and clutch. And grab that belt.” The KGB agent frowns, affronted. “No, not the Dior. The Rabanne.”

Solo racks his brains… _Rabanne_. The jeweler boy wonder? Either the Russian has a _hell_ of an eye for designers or he’s trying to con them all.

He glances surreptitiously at the clerks. Their faces betray nothing. Napoleon curses silently and decides to take his chances.

“You _can’t_ put a Paco Rabanne belt on a Patou.”

 _The kid’s name_ is _Paco, right?_

Peril scoffs. “She’s not going to wear a Patou.”

“What’s wrong with a Patou?” The reasoning is not the important part here. It’s the reaction. And it doesn’t disappoint.

“Nothing. If you’re _fat._ ”

Peril brandishes the belt like a Makarov PM, an irritated, insistent conviction underscoring his words. “The _Dior_ goes with the Rabanne.”

The KGB agent may know his couturiers, but a keen eye is no substitute for good taste. Napoleon heaves a dramatic (and highly-calculated) sigh. “It won’t match.”

“It. Doesn’t. _Have._ To. Match.”

The Russian advances on him with every word. And, being the masochist that he is, Solo refuses to back down. It is far from his proudest moment—two grown men coming to blows over women’s fashion—but he can appreciate the absurdity of the situation later.

He summons up the barest flicker of patriotism as he heads into this sartorial Cold War. Fortunately for the CIA’s annual budget, though, Gaby interrupts the men before any damage can be done.

“Have you seen the price of this handbag? It costs more than my car.”

The two agents chase the source of that husky voice, their squabble instantly forgotten. Gaby looks every inch the young, fashionable mod that Solo would wish her to be. In _fact_ , were he the one posing as her fiancé, Napoleon might have chosen something similar for her.

But as it stands, the mechanic is going to attract _a lot_ of attention in such an ensemble. The American can only hope that the KGB agent (who has momentarily stopped breathing) will be able to handle it.

“You can get back on your horse now, Cowboy.”

Could there possibly be a sense of _humor_ lurking beneath that Soviet stoicism, that _Siberian_ coolness? _A riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma_ , Solo decides. _That_ is the Red Peril to a tee.

But, if the American’s hunch is correct, then he’s already found the key… or at least one of them. That particular key in question is currently training her dark eyes on him, awaiting Solo’s next move.

Gaby knows as well as he does what’s coming next.

If there is _any_ hope for this star-crossed couple, it’s not going to be found with a chaperone.

Satisfied that the mechanic isn’t in immediate danger or (more accurately) _isn’t_ one, Napoleon gracefully bows out.

“I’ll see you in Rome.”

 

* * *

 

Once the Cowboy is safely out of the picture, Illya gives the mechanic his attention—fully, like she deserves. She is a vision in cream and coral, a cover girl worthy of the “Vogue of the East”.

He has always found the amateur models of _Sibylle_ to be more beautiful than any professional the West could offer. They are at once widely accessible and deeply intimate—a contradiction that Illya now associates with the mechanic.

Gabriella is a “keep out” sign on an unlocked door, a welcome mat before a fortress. There is a challenge in her eyes, a push and pull unlike anything he’s ever seen. Something wild and warring and wonderful that captivates him.

It gives Illya courage.

If the mechanic is strong enough and brave enough to overcome their countries’ pasts, then he can find the grace to do the same. He _will_ do the same for her.

Starting with a proposal.

“Not bad.”

Illya plays the role of designer and Gabriella is his model, his _muse_. He gentles his hands onto her waist and methodically spins her around. She may huff and roll her eyes, but she allows him to examine the dress (and its occupant) from all angles.

“I like this, yes. But it’s missing a little something. _There_ ,” he says, “now we are engaged.” She holds the ring in the palm of her hand. Illya wouldn’t be surprised if the mechanic held his heart alongside it.

There’s no going back now.

Gabriella responds with a terse nod, her delicate fingers curling over the band. They are officially committed. To their mission, to their covers, to each other. It’s a heady thing.

He smiles archly at her. “Congratulations.”

The mechanic fiddles with the ring, but doesn’t put it on. The smugness blanches from Illya’s face as doubt and then panic creeps in. _Does she not like it?_

Gabriella puts him out of his misery with a new line of attack. “Do you have a name? Or should I be introducing myself as the future Mrs. Red Peril?”

Her eyes lift to meet his, and, for an excruciating moment, his mind goes blank. His _name_? “Illya.” It comes out like a question. “Illya Kuryakin. But for mission, you will be engaged to Illya Kuznetsov.”

“Illya,” she repeats, trying it out for the first time. He thrills with the hypnotic lilt of it. A short hum from the mechanic, then, “Nice name.”

“Thank you. Was birthday present.” A reluctant smile ghosts across her face and he can feel his heartbeat quicken for it. Gabriella wanders to inspect his other dress selections, calling over her shoulder as she passes him. “I take it you already know all about me.”

“Not nearly enough,” he says quickly. _Too_ quickly.

Not good.

“What I mean to say, Gabriella, is that I know only a handful of facts—your name, your birthdate, where you work, where you live, et cetera—but not the type of information a fiancé would be expected to know.”

He seems to have passed her test because she nods and slips on the ring. Relief and an indescribable _something_ bursts inside his chest.

“You can start by calling me Gaby.”

Illya nods, abashed, and watches the mechanic return to her browsing. Her expression is maddeningly inscrutable. “What do you think?”

“Not bad,” she mimics. Her voice is stern, gently mocking, but there’s a spark of humor in her eyes. He realizes then that he doesn’t mind being teased by her.

“Actually, they’re… nice,” she admits. “Do I have to try them all on?” Gaby looks less than enthused by the prospect. Inexplicably, it makes Illya soften.

“Necessary precaution,” he assures her. The mechanic grimly accepts the Dior, stanchly refuses to take the belt.

“I’m not wearing that.”

Illya frowns. “Don’t listen to Cowboy. It will look fine—”

“I’m not wearing it. Whether it matches or not.”

They lock eyes for a moment before Illya nods and acquiesces. It is good strategy. A victory (however small) is an important step in building trust. There will be other, more important battles to fight later.

The next half hour follows in a soft-focused blur of the mechanic modeling the dresses, looking more and more beautiful with each one. It gives the Russian an opportunity to study her—to observe, to memorize, to adapt.

Illya measures his success by the brightness in Gaby’s eyes, the way she carries herself when she walks out of the dressing room.

It is a gift to watch.

By the end, Gaby has amassed a healthy new wardrobe. She finishes getting dressed while the KGB agent stealthily attempts one final purchase.

He severely underestimates the amount of time it will take.

“What is that?”

There is a dangerous edge to her words. Illya whips around, shame-faced, clutching the navy blue chemise in his giant, sweaty paws. The garment is a mere pretense of modesty, and Gaby is understandably outraged by it.

But he swears he can _explain_ himself, if he can only manage to get the words out. “I- it’s for your cover,” he stammers.

The mechanic folds her arms over her chest, voice more acidic than honeyed. “I’d say that _covers_ very little, don’t you?”

“N-no. It’s not to wear.” Gaby jerks her chin up at him, dares Illya to dig himself out of this hole. It’s a tall order.

“It’s to keep in your suitcase,” he explains. “We are posing as engaged couple. Anyone searching our bags will expect to see something like this.”

He winces, braces himself for the onslaught he knows is coming.

“Listen, _comrade_ ,” she starts and Illya feels himself recoil from it. “You may get to dress me like a doll when we’re in public, but behind closed doors, you do _not_ have a say in what I wear and what I sleep in. Got it?”

He shrinks under her wrath. “Understood.” Meek, repentant. _Mortified_. “Sorry.”

The mechanic pointedly ignores him while the last of the purchases are being packed. He frowns slightly when he takes note of her attire. Even wearing coveralls and a scowl, Gaby is luminous.

He’s staring.

Illya flounders at the realization, says the first thing that comes to mind. Unsurprisingly, it’s the _wrong_ thing. “You wouldn’t rather wear one of your dresses?”

That glare could kill a lesser man.

Illya squirms under Gaby’s scrutiny. “I’ll grab your bags.” He feels her stiffen when she approaches the Volga. It seems he’s not the _only_ product of the Soviet Union she doesn’t care for.

“Do you have everything you need?”

“It’s okay. I’ll just pop back over the Wall and grab the rest.” She snaps, “What do _you_ think?”

Illya shrugs and gives her a rueful little smile. “I _think_ I should start following your orders.”

“Good. Give me the keys.”

If the mechanic can learn to like the Volga, maybe there’s a chance for him yet.

 

* * *

 

Gaby sets her sights on the nearest department store: the _Kaufhaus des Westens_. Illya had balked at the notion, of course, but contritely deferred to her _de facto_ leadership. He resigns himself to the role of dutiful navigator and (wisely) keeps any comments about her driving to himself.

The Russian sits beside her now, seemingly content to enjoy the scenery. His index finger taps lazily against his thigh—a sluggish heartbeat that is nearly deafening in the silence.

“Do you mind?”

A bland look of puzzlement greets her. She gestures to his hands. “Ah,” he says. “Sorry.”

Illya folds his hands into his lap, the very picture of an innocent schoolboy. He trains a steady, friendly gaze on her. “Is this better?”

Gaby rolls her eyes in response and could swear his lips twitch into a smile. “You’re in a good mood.”

His brow furrows, quizzically, as if such a thought hadn’t occurred to him. He hums vaguely. “Yes.”

“May I ask why?”

“May I ask why _not_?”

Gaby glowers in response and the Russian _laughs_ : a deep, dark rumble she can feel in her bones. “We’re here,” he announces grandly, his baritone still laced with mirth.

Illya stops the mechanic when she reaches for the door handle. “Let me.” Gaby considers opening it anyway, but in a few long strides, he’s already pulling it open for her. She holds up her hand before he can close it behind her. “Wait.”

Gaby turns her back to the Russian and steps out of her coveralls. They land in an undignified and crumpled pile on the driver’s seat.

She’s not going to be making _that_ mistake again.

Illya proffers his arm to her, but Gaby makes no effort to take it. “We are supposed to be engaged,” he reminds her. “You will need to get used to this.”

He gently threads her arm through his and looks down at her. “Is this all right?” Gaby nods and impatiently tugs him towards the building. Another soft chuckles ghosts over the top of her head.

The mechanic drops his arm the moment they enter the _Kaufhaus_. She pretends to inspect a set of large, decorative throw pillows. “I don’t think they will fit in suitcase,” he teases.

“Do we have a suitcase?”

“We will need more.”

Gaby gestures at him: _then get going_. “Meet me back here in fifteen minutes.” She turns on her heel before the Russian can protest. Not that he’s _likely_ to given the infuriating little smirk he gives her.

Basket in hand, the mechanic starts tracking down the rest of the essentials. She doesn’t feel the same lightness that she did at the _markthalle_ , but there is a gratifying sense of purpose here that grounds her.

When Illya returns—early and conspicuously empty-handed—he immediately takes the basket from her. “Suitcases are waiting for us at the counter,” he explains. Gaby grudgingly accepts his arm as they continue on.

Her Russian shadow frowns when she stops to look at pajamas. “You do not have a set?”

“I had to borrow from Solo.”

Illya’s fingers start tapping again and Gaby instinctively senses trouble brewing. She lays her hand on his arm and it seems to jolt him out of… _whatever_ that was.

The mechanic offers him a small smile before sorting through the stacks of two-piece pajamas. She grabs two pairs—striped trousers with matching button-up shirts—and turns to face Illya.

Gaby _dares_ him to protest as she lowers the pajamas into the basket. Under her watchful eyes, the Russian simply nods. “Functional,” he comments.

Despite her protests, Illya leads her to look at perfumes next. He spends an eternity comparing base notes with the salesman before narrowing it down to four fragrances. Only _then_ do they bother to include Gaby in the process.

She sniffs each test strip—taking a mandatory sip of water between each one—and shrugs. She motions vaguely to the third one. “That one’s fine.”

“ _Tosca_. Good German perfume.” The clerk smiles at her approvingly. “Now we must test it on your skin.”

The mechanic reluctantly allows him to spritz the perfume at her pulse points. She breathes in the fragrance deeply, gives the man a cursory nod in confirmation.

“And what does your fiancé think?”

Gaby’s body goes rigid as Illya slowly and cautiously ducks down by her neck. She nearly shivers when he inhales the spicy, floral scent.

“It—,” his voice sounds slightly strangled. He coughs. “It—yes. This is good.”

Illya hastily pays for a small bottle of _Tosca_. He mutters _something_ about cosmetics before bolting from the perfume counter.

The salesman winks at her, withers under Gaby’s cutting glare as she leaves in the opposite direction.

She has suddenly been gifted with a brilliant idea and a golden opportunity: to buy something with her own money. It would be a mutiny in miniature, a small-scale subversion.

Her eyes alight on a swan-shaped pin and she smiles. It reminds Gaby of her days as a ballerina… of the power and endurance she could summon long after she thought she’d reached her limits.

She greets the cashier and nervously hands over her contraband. Her foot taps nervously, keeping time with the hammering in her throat. Gaby pulls out her wallet—

“I’m so sorry, miss, but we can’t accept that.”

“It’s _Deutsche mark_ , isn’t it?” The mechanic’s words are clipped, razor-sharp. A thousand polite apologies are etched into the clerk’s face.

“ _Eastern_ mark. We’re not allowed—”

“It’s the same money,” she nearly shouts. Gaby squeezes her eyes shut as a tall shadow materializes behind her.

“Is there a problem?”

The clerk timidly turns to Illya. “Sir, your friend—”

“Fiancée,” he growls.

“— _Fiancée_ is trying to pay with East German currency. We can’t accept it or exchange it. No business does outside of the Iron Curtain. I’m sorry.”

And the young woman truly seems to be. It only makes Gaby angrier, even more so when the Russian reaches for his wallet.

“Just leave it,” she snaps, brushes past him roughly. “Excuse me,” Illya murmurs to the clerk and quickly catches up to her.

“Gaby, what’s wrong?”

“I don’t want to depend on you, all right?” The mechanic’s eyes are red-rimmed. She blinks back the frustration, the humiliation threatening to spill down her cheeks. “I don’t want to depend on _anyone_.”

The Russian doesn’t say anything. He waits for her to compose herself and simply listens. “There are strings attached to _everything_ , Illya. Every dress, every ring, every single part of this. I just thought I could...”

She sighs, her voice trailing off.

“Could what?” Illya prompts. His voice is gentle, his eyes kind and intently focused on her. Gaby shakes her head furiously. How could she possibly find the words to explain?

“I don’t want to feel like I owe you anything.”

She chokes down the rising lump in her throat, opens her mouth in protest when the Russian plucks the wallet from her hands and pulls out a handful of bills.

“They are valued at parity, yes?”

The mechanic shuts her mouth, nods, as Illya tucks the eastern mark into his own wallet. He hands Gaby their equivalent in western bills. “Now we are even. I will exchange the rest for _lira_ when we get to Rome.”

Gaby hastily swipes at her eyes. The Russian raises his hand to comfort her, reconsiders. She almost wishes he hadn’t.

“I will still pay for your meals and most of your expenses,” he tells her, “but if you want to buy souvenir, you will have that option.”

His cold hands cup hers, closing her fingers over her wallet. He smiles. “Would you like to go back to get your swan now?”

“No.”

Gaby can’t look him in the eyes as she whispers, “Thank you.”

Illya nods. “Come,” he says, putting her arm through his in a now-familiar movement. “We still have more ground to cover.”

As they are leaving the department store, arms laden with seven-floors worth of purchases, Gaby finally spots it. She stops abruptly and orders Illya to wait for her.

She takes off running.

Minutes later, the mechanic is strutting through the parking lot. Her oversized pair of white sunglasses draws an exasperated sigh from the Russian. “ _That_ is what you wanted?”

She twirls around to face him. “It is _exactly_ what I wanted.”

Illya merely shakes his head and follows her back to the Volga. _Perhaps,_ Gaby thinks, sneaking a glance at her new partner, _this won’t be so impossible after all._

* * *

 

Illya leads the way up to his apartment. Mystifyingly, he is _nervous_. He knows his current living quarters are sparse, to say the least, but they are clean, serviceable. Nothing he should feel shame over.

He is quick to revise that statement.

Illya nearly drops their bags in horror when he enters. The mechanic sees it at the same time he does: the open KGB file on her. “Gaby,” he warns.

He haphazardly sets down the various luggage and packages and goes to grab the folder from her. His size and speed work against him.

The mechanic gracefully ducks under his arm, and, with a victorious smirk, retreats into his bedroom. The lock clinks distinctly into place.

Illya’s still-extended hand clenches into a fist and he exhales forcefully through his nose. He can’t exactly knock the door down and picking the lock is out of the question. He’s not keen to discover how _that_ conversation would go.

So, the Russian has no choice now but to wait—a ticking bomb that sends a fresh tremor through his hands. Illya marvels again at how the slightest touch, even the slightest _glimpse_ of the mechanic can ground him like a lightning rod.

Suddenly, he wishes Gaby were with him now… for entirely different reasons than his gross (mis)handling of sensitive government intelligence.

The Russian sighs and busies himself with unloading the day’s acquisitions. He finds Gaby’s wallet in one of the bags, and, with a secretive glance around him, slips something inside it.

Illya knows _exactly_ what the mechanic had meant at the department store, knows it painfully, intimately, and more than he will ever admit.

He learned it by watching his mother, how his father’s friends would give only to take, take, _take_. It sickened him every time he saw a new bracelet or an unfamiliar dress on her, knowing ultimately what it would cost.

And this?

The clandestine little swan pin is something that would make the mechanic happy. But would she accept it from him?

Illya’s head wins out over his heart and he reimburses himself for the purchase. Gaby wouldn’t have it any other way, and, although the decision weighs heavily on him, he has no choice but to honor that.

The Russian reaches next to fold the mechanic’s coveralls, frowns when the slim metal tube falls out of one of the pockets. He hefts it in his hand and examines it more closely. He scoffs. The CIA are nowhere _close_ to rivalling the Kiss of Death.

Illya’s stomach sours when he thinks about why Gaby would even have it on her. _Does she think he would hurt her?_ He would _never—_

_But what if those were his orders?_

He knows the mechanic’s usefulness, much like his own, has a shelf-life. When the mission inevitably ends, would the KGB allow Gaby to walk away? Would _he_ let them if they didn’t?

The door handle turns behind him and Illya immediately stuffs the inferior, insufficient pistol (and the dangerous thoughts it brings) back where he found it.

Gaby slowly rounds the couch to face him. She returns the folder to him. “You were right.”

The mechanic shrugs at his surprised expression. “You really _don’t_ know much about me.” The relief in her voice is palpable.

“No,” Illya agrees. Then tentatively, bravely, “But you will teach me?”

“I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time for that.” Gaby begins to rifle through the bags, pulling out clothes and toiletries as she speaks. “Do you mind if I use your shower?”

It’s a rhetorical question, a social nicety, but his brain hasn’t quite processed it. “A shower,” he repeats dumbly.

“I’ve been wearing the same clothes for three days. I’d like to freshen up.”

“Y-yes. Of course. Whatever you need.”

She’s already gone.

Illya waits for the water to start running before he ventures into his room. He is mortified to see his clothes scattered about in his haste to get ready and get it _right_.

His cap, curiously, is not where he remembers leaving it.

He imagines Gaby’s slender fingers brushing softly against the weave of the fabric, stopping to inspect it more closely before carelessly dropping it back onto his dresser. Illya’s hands trace over the cap now as if feeling it for the first time.

The water stops, startling him into action.

Illya scrambles to gather up his belongings, moves his case back to the living room. He closes the door behind him to give the mechanic as much privacy as possible.

Gaby wanders back out a few minutes later. The ends of her ponytail baptize him when she turns her head too quickly. Illya brushes the water droplets away but says nothing.

The mechanic takes her seat beside him and begins to pitch in. Her efforts leave much to be desired.

“You call this packing?”

She shrugs and continues to  fill her suitcase indiscriminately. Illya’s fingers twitch at the sight of it, itching to restore order. He reaches his breaking point soon after. He catches her hands mid-motion.

“I will do it.”

“Suit yourself.”

Gaby stands up and he fears he’s gone too far. But all the mechanic does is tilt her head to the side and ask, “Tea?”

Illya nods, relieved, and she leaves him to his work. He packs quickly, efficiently—a care honed from years of living out of suitcases. Illya hasn’t had a real “home” since his father went to the _gulag_.

Even his apartment in Moscow feels more like a safe house—a halfway home between missions. He can’t seem to believe in anything more permanent.

There’s an ache in his chest now as he considers the domestic scene around him: ‘his and hers’ luggage, tea for two, and a beautiful young woman wearing his engagement ring. Illya smooths his palms over one of Gaby’s dresses, revelling in this blissful, rose-colored illusion.

The telephone shrieks its presence as Illya quickly tucks the garment away. He answers just as the mechanic pads back over to him.

_“Peril.”_

Illya sighs. “What do you want, Cowboy?”

_“I’ve taken the liberty of booking your accommodations. The Grand Plaza Hotel. I’d say our mechanic deserves nothing less.”_

Illya hums in response, torn between being a good communist and a good fiancé. His jaw threatens to crack as the American drawls on. _“Speaking of your blushing bride-to-be, put Gaby on, won’t you?”_

For a long moment, he debates whether or not to do so. _What reason does he have to talk to her?_ But then the mechanic gently pries the phone from his grip and he strains to listen into their conversation.

“Yes, Solo?”

_“Gaby, dear, how are you?”_

She looks taken aback. “I’m fine. What’s going on?”

_“Just coordinating some logistics. I assume you’ll be taking the train tonight?”_

Illya nods at her in confirmation. “The _Mediolanum_. Yes.”

“And you?”

_“I plan on staying here a little while longer, wrap up a few loose ends, and then fly out tomorrow evening.”_

“You’re not going with us?”

Illya tenses. Is that _fear_ he detects in the mechanic’s voice?

 _“That’s probably not the best idea.”_ Solo pauses. _“I would only be willing to do so if you needed me.”_

The Russian’s hands thrum bloodlessly. _“So, I’m asking you, Gaby, do you need me?”_

The mechanic hesitates and Illya’s heart plummets.

“We’ll be fine, Solo. Enjoy your flight.”

His lungs are oxygen-starved, unaware that he’s been holding his breath. Illya dizzily accepts the phone from Gaby while she leaves to attend to the tea kettle.

“Yes?”

_“I don’t want anything to happen to her, Peril.”_

The Russian drops his voice to a growl. “I will protect her.”

_“From yourself?”_

The line goes dead. Before Illya can act on any of his destructive impulses, the mechanic returns with the tea.

“Here,” she says with a smirk. “Maybe this can warm those frozen hands of yours.” He nods and wordlessly accepts the cup from her. He sips his drink in troubled silence.

“I can finish the rest,” Gaby suddenly offers. She sets her cup down and deftly packs the remaining items. Illya stutters at her newfound neatness.

“Before was just a trick? To get me to pack for you?”

The mechanic covers her smile with a sip of tea. She pulls Illya to his feet. “Almost ready?”

He nods and gathers up their luggage.

Gaby reaches for the car keys when they approach the Volga. “No,” Illya says. “I will drive.”

He hurries to explain himself before the mechanic takes matters into her own hands. “There are GDR checkpoints even on this side of the Wall. Border guards will not question KGB agent.”

Heaping insult to injury, he weakly informs Gaby that she will also need to ride in the backseat. “Just like Cowboy,” he jokes.

“You can drive once we leave Berlin,” he promises as he closes the door behind her.

Illya slides into the driver’s seat, immediately regrets his decision. His long legs press tortuously into the steering wheel. _How short is the mechanic?_ He has to get out to adjust the seat, ignores the mechanic’s hisses of protest.

He also ignores the murderous scowl that greets him when he tilts the rearview mirror. He sighs. “We will catch the train in Munich. It is six hours by car.”

“Maybe with the way _you_ drive,” she mutters.

If the mechanic just so _happens_ to bump her head on the window when he turns out of the parking lot, Illya will swear he had nothing to do with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Twilight Zone reference is period accurate (the show aired between 1959 - 1964), so yay! That would be a great cross-over fic or AU. I'll have to add it to my list. :)
> 
> “A riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma” is credited to Winston Churchill in a radio broadcast from October 1939. The more you know...
> 
> The Makarov PM (Pistolet Makarova) actually borrowed its size and shape from the German Walther PP. Fun fact, it has a double-action mechanism which means that the shooter doesn’t need to manually cock the hammer before firing if a round (9 x 18 mm) is already chambered. But, actual fun fact, it’s probably the only pistol to ever go into space! The Makarov comes standard with every Granat-6 survival kit on board every Soyuz spacecraft. Here’s a link to the article. It’s a fascinating read: https://medium.com/war-is-boring/the-makarov-is-the-elvis-of-pistols-181c4c8d44b5. 
> 
> Sibylle (alternately written as Sybille) was an East German fashion magazine colloquially referred to as “The Vogue of the East”. The designers were largely unknown and the models were all amateurs. The magazine itself could be considered “a staged alternative to socialist prudery”, one that deliberately created a romantic, stylized form of escapism.
> 
> The German currency at the time was the Deutsche Mark, though there was a distinction between eastern mark and western mark. The GDR valued both currencies at parity with each other, but because eastern mark was not circulated widely in the west (and would be difficult to convert), it really was quite worthless outside of East Germany. In 1964, though, the GDR instituted a Zwangsumtausch, or a forced exchange, which meant that foreigners were forced to convert a set amount of their money for eastern mark.
> 
> The Kaufhaus des Westens (“Department Store of the West”), or KaDeWe, is located in the heart of West Berlin and it’s Europe’s second largest department store after Harrods. At the time of this story, it has 7 floors and has been largely rebuilt after sustaining heavy bombing during WWII and even having an American bomber crash into it after it was shot down. The KaDeWe later became emblematic of West German prosperity (in direct contrast with the East).
> 
> Gaby’s “Tosca” perfume was introduced in 1921 and still enjoys a high level of popularity in Germany. It is the eponymous fragrance from Tosca and is a spicy, fresh, floral scent. Head notes are fern, honeysuckle, and magnolia, heart notes are pink peony, peppercorns, and heliotrope, and the base notes are amber, vanilla, and magic lantern orchid. I’m not sure when the practice first started, but I remember reading that when testing out fragrances, the proper procedure is to drink coffee or water (which is the better option) in between scents as a palette-cleanser.
> 
> West Berlin was surrounded by East Germany/East Berlin and, as such, all travelers by car or train had to pass through GDR border checks.
> 
> Gaby and Illya are taking the Mediolanum which runs from Munich to Milan (there were no direct trains to Rome and very few, even, from Germany to Italy during that time period. The Mediolanum was part of the Trans-Europ Express (TEE), which was established in 1957. The TEE provided a transnational network of express trains that were first-class only and designed with businessman in mind. It takes about 11 hours to get from Munich to Milan and then another three to get to Rome, so with the 6-hour drive from Berlin, it’s about 20 hours of travel.


	8. You Always Build It Better The Second Time Around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya and Gaby face their demons head-on and come out stronger than before.
> 
> Chapter title from "Build It Better" by Aron Wright. Give it a listen!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be the last chapter, but it's being split (albeit unevenly) into three parts. The rest is completed, just waiting for the finishing touches. :) Thank you so much for reading and please keep sharing your comments!
> 
> Research notes... and a riddle are at the bottom!

 

**Wednesday, June 12, 1963**

The streets darken as she drives, shadows lengthening and sun setting. Gaby stares determinedly ahead, _willfully_ ignoring her Russian co-pilot. The mechanic’s ego (not to mention her head) are still bruised from Illya’s earlier stunt and she is not above indulging in a revenge fantasy or twenty.

Not when his lips curve into a secret smile every time she touches the sore spot on her temple and definitely _not_ when he had laughed when Gaby first took over the driver’s seat—arms and legs several inches too short to reach anything.

If Illya has _any_ hope of earning her forgiveness, he’s going to have to work for it.

He hasn’t seemed to have gotten the memo.

After two hours of watching her fume in silence, the Russian reclines lazily in his seat. He folds his arms over his chest, graces her scowl with an arch grin.

“So, _Gaby_ , why don’t you tell me the story of the architect and the mechanic?”

She huffs, but doesn’t take her eyes from the road. “Is that what you’re really asking?”

“We need to work on our cover.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

She knows the danger of her next words, but throws him into her minefield anyway. “Are you asking as an _architect_ … or as a Russian?”

Illya’s expression is closely guarded. There’s an almost imperceptible shift in his posture: still rounded and open, but with newer, sharper edges. “They are one and the same here, yes?”

Gaby’s bleak little laugh pierces the air like a sword of Damocles. “Either way, Illya, we’ve got our work cut out for us.”

The Russian shrugs, nonplussed. He looks out the window and for a long moment, he is silent.

“Love is love,” he says finally, blue eyes conspicuously trained on the dark landscape beside him. They flick nervously at the mechanic when she sighs.

“Do we even have that luxury?”

“It is _all_ we have.”

The KGB agent clears his throat and turns his body to face her. “You don’t believe that?”

“It doesn’t matter what I believe, Illya. What matters is what my uncle, what _everyone else_ will believe when they see—”

“No.”

She blinks a couple of times and feels the telltale rise in her shoulders. _“No?”_

Illya bolts upright. “Why would you want to marry me, Gaby? Is it because maybe you realize not all Russians are the same? That we are not _all_ to blame for what happened to your city? That there could be a Soviet architect who—”

“But you’re _not_ an architect, Illya! You’re a spy.” Her breathing is labored, like she has just been running. “Don’t think I can just _set_ those memories aside just because _you_ weren’t there.”

Illya throws his hands up in protest. His head falls back against the seat, eyes rolling upwards. Whether the gesture is out of annoyance or supplication, Gaby can’t tell.

“Is that it then? You would only marry me to get over the Wall?”

“I. Am. _Not_. Marrying. You,” she grits out. “Not for love, not for convenience, not even for the mission. This is a cover. And that _cover_ won’t do us any good if my uncle doesn’t trust me.”

She can hardly see the pain in his eyes buried beneath all that anger. “Don’t worry, Gaby. Everyone will see that you are good little Nazi who manipulate foolish Russian _brute_ into getting you a visa.”

Her hands clench painfully against the steering wheel as Illya deals the deathblow—the Soviet cruelty she’s been preparing herself for all along. “You come from a family of war criminals. Why did I expect you to be different?”

Gaby’s voice is low and eerily calm, her thoughts swimming through soul-shattering rapids. “What does _that_ mean?”

“It means your father and uncle should be very proud of all you are capable.”

 _What does_ he _know about Rudi? Is it the evidence Waverly's been searching for?_

There’s something about this side of the Russian that should scare her. What it _shouldn’t_ do is encourage her.

“You want to work on our cover? Then fine. Tell me what it was like to spend two years working on that Wall, calling for more wire, new fortifications, a better _cage_ for your fancée?”

“I got you out, didn’t I?”

“Can one hypocrisy reset the scales?” She motions to her engagement ring. “Could it buy you a clear conscience?”

“I was following orders.”

"Isn't that what the good little Nazis like me are supposed to say?"

"Gaby," he warns, but she cuts him off.

“So you were following orders back then and you are following orders now. And when the orders come in to put me back behind that Wall?” Gaby scoffs, dares him to contradict her. “I expect you will follow them too.”

A muscle tics in Illya’s jaw. He ignores her, but she can see that he is battling to keep his composure. She presses her advantage.

“Maybe you’re right, Illya. Maybe they really _will_ believe that a Russian architect and a German mechanic could fall in love. But you’re not going to get me _killed_ for it if they don’t.”

She doesn’t give him time to respond. “Your guess is as good as mine about my father. But _Rudi_ , I know, would be disgusted by our engagement.” The mechanic shrugs. “I can’t say I blame him.”

The Russian’s hands start shaking violently, but it doesn’t stop her. If anything, it seems to spur her on. “You want to know _why_ , Illya? Because I am too.”

He recoils from her. Gaby watches as all the anger drains from his body, leaving only shock and agony deep enough to drown in. His voice is sharp, petulant. “I will call Cowboy and explain. Since you so _clearly_ prefer him, then—”

“Then what? Solo can go anywhere, be anyone he chooses. But _you_ , my Russian friend, won’t even get through the front door.” Gaby chuckles darkly. “Face it, comrade. You’re not getting _anywhere_ near the Vinciguerras without me.”

A new Iron Curtain descends between them—one borne of old wounds and harsh words and complicated emotions. The mechanic seethes red-hot with fury, while the KGB agent turns to stone. He sits beside her, blank-faced, fingers unnaturally still.

Gaby navigates the rest of the way to Munich alone. She curses when she gets lost, but Illya doesn’t react, doesn’t speak, doesn’t even _look_. It is three hours of volatile, razor-edged silence.

She is out of the car the _second_ they park at the train station. Illya, however, makes no attempt to move at all.

The mechanic grabs her suitcases and walks off without him. Within seconds, the Russian reappears stiffly beside her. He deliberately lengthens his stride so that Gaby would need to jog to keep up with him.

But she won’t.

Illya stops abruptly and jabs his finger at the payphone. He drops a handful of coins into her palm and stares pointedly above her head.

“Call Rudi,” he growls. “I’ll get the tickets.” Illya nearly knocks her over as he brushes past. She curses at his retreating figure, stoops to pick up her fallen luggage.

Gaby stalks over to the phone booth, a pint-sized powder keg toeing the line of her own defiance.

She dials the familiar number and waits…

A British voice greets her.

 

* * *

 

_“Uncle Rudi?”_

Waverly smiles in relief. “Miss Teller. Are you all right?”

A careful, cryptic message follows. He surmises from the background noise that Gaby must be at a train station or some other public place.

 _“Fine, thank you. I have some important news to share with you, uncle. News that_ I’m _still trying to wrap my head around. I’m in the West now—in Munich—on my way to Rome.”_

The Brit nods, knowingly. “Yes, I heard about the little incident at the Wall. Figured you had to be in the thick of it.”

 _“You won’t have to worry about me traveling alone because my fiancé is coming with me.”_ His agent hesitates. _“I’m engaged now.”_

“Engaged,” he repeats.

_“Yes. His name is Illya. He’s an architect.”_

Waverly freezes, knits his brows together. “From what I understood, you escaped with an American.”

Another measured pause from the mechanic.

 _“My other... suitor realized that we were better off as friends. He’s actually the one who set Illya and me up. The_ three _of us_ ,” she continues, deliberate, _“have even made plans to go on holiday together. I’m sure you’ll get to meet him when Illya and I come visit.”_

Clever girl.

“I see.”

The situation is baffling, but at least he can prepare himself for it. “Now, if this Illya is the same one I’m thinking of, then he’s certainly no slouch. And I can’t imagine the CIA would send anyone short of their best either.”

Waverly closes his eyes, mentally recalls his file on the KGB’s top agent. Illya Kuryakin, army of one. “This is a far cry from your fiancé’s more _typical_ roles I suspect. Bit of a fish out of water, isn’t he?”

Gaby snorts indelicately in response.

“I hope I don’t need to remind you, Miss Teller, that every alliance at play here—including the ones that you yourself are involved in—are all on tenterhooks. You’re not here to make friends. I’d advise you not to get too attached.”

_“Of course, uncle.”_

He nods, even though she can’t see him. “I’m giving you _carte blanche_ to secure your cover. Work with the Russian, test him, throw him to the wolves if you have to, but the mission and your safety come first.”

 _In that order_.

While the Brit has developed quite the paternal affection for the mechanic, the mission— _especially_ this mission—will always be their top priority.

Gaby knows the risks and God help her for it.

Waverly huffs out a laugh despite himself. “You certainly have a knack for timing. The Vinciguerras will be hosting quite the celebration in two days’ time. And, _naturally_ , I plan on making an appearance.”

 _“Naturally.”_ A touch of humor colors her voice.

“I’m sure your uncle will extend the invitation. We might even run into each other. Purely by accident, of course.” He indulges in a small smile at that. “Where will you be staying?”

_“The Grand Plaza.”_

“Excellent. I’ll be sure to book a room.”

_“Shall I call you when we arrive?”_

“There’s no need. As you might expect, our contact will necessarily be limited going forward. I’ll be keeping a close eye  though on the both, no the _three_ of you.”

_“And if I need to reach you?”_

“You’re a bright agent, Gaby. I’m sure you will find a way. And that you will _do so_ with the utmost care.”

The mechanic hums in acknowledgment as he reaches for a pen and paper. “I’m assuming Rudi is still in the dark about all this?”

_“Yes.”_

Waverly scrawls a note to himself. “You’re at the _München Hauptbahnhof_ , correct? I can have one of my agents there shortly. They’ll send a telegram on your behalf.”

_“Thank you.”_

“I really am looking forward to seeing you, Miss Teller.” He pauses, sincere. “ And I’m glad to hear you’re all right.”

_“You too, Uncle Rudi. Goodbye.”_

Waverly rakes a hand through his hair. The cooperation between rival agencies, _especially_ between two countries so long at odds with each other...

It’s _extraordinary_.

An idea starts percolating in the back of his mind: an American, a Russian, and an MI6 agent from Germany, all working towards the greater good. It’ll be a trial by fire, but there’s no telling what else could come from such an arrangement.

And in that moment, Waverly finds a _new_ reason to will this mission to succeed.

* * *

 

The sleeper compartment is private, comfortable, and altogether too small for a giant Russian, a diminutive German, and the sheer magnitude of ill will between them.

Illya had lifted the shade on the window, convinced that the walls were closing in. The air is still stifling, thick with tension, but at least he can breathe again.

He lies in his bed now, gaze incendiary, seemingly determined to burn holes in the ceiling. It takes every ounce of his self-control not to look over at the mechanic.

He may not look, but he can still _hear_.

The sheets rustle, the mattress squeaks, and muffled, frustrated sighs escape Gaby as she tosses and turns in the bed across from his. Restless, relentless. Insomnia laced with suggestion.

Illya is _convinced_ that her theatrics are purely for show, a peculiar and peculiarly _effective_ form of torture. He huffs, not bothering to keep his voice down.

“You are uncomfortable?”

“I’m sleeping beside a man I just met,” she shoots back. He can almost hear the calculated shrug in her voice. “You act like it’s the first time.”

Illya’s stomach drops. He doesn’t know whether to call her bluff or not, but he _is_ certain of one thing: the mechanic is a doe-eyed sadist.

The Russian rolls his eyes instead, weighting his baritone with sarcasm.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

Realization comes a moment too late. Gaby’s derisive snort is enough to kill him on the spot as he closes his eyes and suffers. He scrambles to his feet and fumbles to turn on the light.

The mechanic hisses at the sudden brightness, burrows deeper under the covers. Illya, too, has to blink away his disorientation.“Nevermind,” he mutters. “I think I’ve found a solution.”

He deliberately leaves the light on as he exits.

Illya pads lightly down the deserted corridor, content to follow his feet wherever they may lead him. His stomach rumbles.

The _currywurst_ that Gaby had practically begged him to get at the _Kaufhaus_ is a distant memory.. and a further source of grievance between them.

They had missed the dinner service.

And, of course, Gaby had blamed _him_.

It was the last train of the evening, and he and the mechanic had silently brawled their way through the cars in search of their sleeper compartment. It was a graceless dance that they were competing to lead. The two of them were uncommunicative, uncooperative, and firmly unforgiving.

By the time he and Gaby had (independently) decided to go eat, the dining car was closed.

They were now hungry, irritable, and imprisoned in each other’s company. There were only two options available to them: reconcile or go to sleep early.

The decision had been unanimous.

Illya paces frantically, aimlessly throughout the train, needing to keep himself occupied. He suspects that he could tear this cherry and cream train into _pieces_ if he put his mind to it.

Bitterness, humiliation, and something that he _refuses_ to consider as heartache sears him with every glance, every thought, every reminder of the German woman.

Illya knows he had been cruel to her earlier, yes, but Gaby had returned the favor tenfold. Only _she_ had actually meant it.

The mechanic’s words—her hatred of the Russians, her contempt for _him_ , her blanching _disgust_ at their cover—had stunned Illya with a blistering sort of horror.

He hadn’t contradicted Gaby because, deep down, he believes it all. _Has_ believed it since the moment he learned they would be paired together.

Illya knows he will never deserve the mechanic.

Will never be worthy of her.

But he had tried to offer her a way out (had invited, _welcomed_ whatever pain she might inflict because of it). Gaby had surprised him, shamed him with her answer. She understood the situation better than he did.

And she was right: Illya is almost entirely dependent on her.

Gaby’s reservations about their cover, too, were well-founded, but Illya had been blinded to them. Too stubborn to consider anything beyond his ‘love conquers all’ delusions.

 _It doesn’t matter what I believe_ , she had said—a statement that, in retrospect, gives him hope. It is little more than a sliver, but it would be enough to sustain him.

Without realizing it, Illya has found his way back to their shared compartment. He hesitates, hopes that she hasn’t locked him out.

The handle turns and Illya heaves a sigh of relief. He gathers up his courage and quietly slips inside the room.

His heart stops.

The mechanic sits on the floor, knees tucked into her chest, a _certain_ swan pin in her hands. She doesn’t look up at him.

Gaby’s voice and eyes take on a distant, misty quality. “When I was six, the Red Army marched through my city.”

And like a spell-bound child, Illya takes a seat across from her.

 

* * *

 

“I thought their uniforms would be red,” Gaby admits. Illya nods, lips curving into a bittersweet shadow of a smile. “But they were tan with tall, black boots. I’ll never forget them. The boots. Endless rows of them, no matter where I looked.”

Gaby holds the swan before her, a shield against the onslaught of memories. She had grabbed her wallet shortly after Illya left, determined to change trains or change compartments—anything to get away from him.

But then she had found the pin, counted up the bills in her wallet, and realized that he had truly understood her.

Her walls came crashing down.

“The screaming started and then the crying. It never seemed to stop.” There’s a slight quake in her voice, the rawness of a first confession. Gaby barely feels Illya’s hand—a cool, cautious featherweight —as it rests lightly on her own.

“They left broken glass and broken people everywhere they went. We had to go to a soup kitchen for food.” She shudders. “A soldier spat on me. I remember crying to my father that I’d rather _starve_ than have to go back.”

The hand on hers doubles its pressure, a slight tremor in Illya’s long fingers. “What happened?” He asks thickly. Gaby shrugs.

“We did what we had to.”

She shakes her head, blinks quickly a few times. Her eyes start focusing again. “You already know most of what happens next. We lost the war, I lost my father, and—”

“You grew up under Soviet occupation.” Gaby can hear the subtle shift in his breathing as the shaking becomes more distinct.

“Where and how I grew up, Illya, we never questioned how we were _supposed_ to feel about the Russians. I never did.”

His hand slowly starts to draw back. Gaby transfers the pin to her free hand and clumsily squeezes Illya’s with the other.

He pauses, but doesn’t pull away.

“I never questioned my views on the Russians,” she repeats. “Until two nights ago.”

Illya’s fingers suddenly go still. Gaby finally looks at him: he is staring back at her with a boyish vulnerability, years younger in the moon-dappled room.

Ever so slightly, he returns the pressure of her hand in his. His thumb strokes small, slow circles on her skin, his voice a hoarse whisper.

“What changed your mind?”

“Solo did.”

Gaby smiles at his confusion. “I didn’t know what was going to happen to you that night. It bothered me that I even cared. But Solo,” she takes a deep breath, regroups. “Solo pointed out that you had never tried to harm me. You’d been trying to _protect_ me even.”

Illya hums, nodding slowly.

“You smiled at me. In the car. Why?”

Gaby shrugs. “Instinct, maybe? You were different. Not what I had expected.”

She clears her throat suddenly and quickly lets go of Illya’s hand. The loss is startling in its intensity.

 _Don’t get too attached_.

But it’s difficult to heed Waverly’s warning when the Russian’s palm is ghosting over her knee, lingering a second too long, before finally, reluctantly being pulled back. Illya’s other hand immediately cradles it in his lap.

The swan pin catches the moonlight as Gaby turns it over and over in her hands. There’s a hypnotic quality to the motion, the play of light and shadow soothing and encouraging her.

“What I’m trying to say, Illya, is that you were—are—different. And I’m,” she pauses, “I'm glad that you’re here with me now.”

She bites her lip and looks everywhere but at the Russian. He seems to have momentarily lost all powers of speech.

“Gaby,” he sighs. “I… I’m sorry. For what I said about you. Your family. It was,” he shakes his head, lets the words trail off. “I am sorry.”

“You know something about Rudi.”

He shifts nervously, hands opening and closing into fists. Now _he_ is the one who can’t seem to look at her. “I should not have said anything. It is only speculation.”

“Illya,” she says, insistent. “Tell me.”

His shoulders sag in defeat. “We believe your uncle tortured and ran experiments for Hitler… on Jews, Soviet prisoners of war, whoever was available.”

Even in the gloom, he is still able to read something minute in her expression.

“This does not surprise you.”

Gaby shakes her head. She wills down the wave of nausea. “I had expected something—not this—but _something_ that would tie him to the Vinciguerras. Rudi moved to Italy just before the war ended. Now I know that he fled the country.”

Illya’s face is ashen, eyes mournful. The mechanic nudges him gently. “I needed to know about this. It’s better that I find out from you here than from _him_ later.”

A curt nod from the Russian. _That's enough heaviness for one night_ _,_ she thinks as she rises to her feet. “Come on,” Gaby says. He looks up at her, confused. “We still need to work on our cover.”

She extends a hand to Illya, but he does all the heavy lifting. Gaby offers him a coy, tentative smile.

“So, _Illya_ , why don’t you tell me the story of the architect and the mechanic?”

His stomach growls in response and Gaby bursts into laughter. “Can we please get something to eat first?” He asks, chagrined.

“The dining car is closed, remember?”

“I am KGB,” he reminds her, covering his smile.

“Then by all means...”

Illya opens the door for her and shadows her awkwardly—unsure if he’s allowed to touch her or not. Gaby purses her lips and makes up her mind.

She slips her arm in his. Together, in bare feet and pajamas, they steal away to the dining car.

 

* * *

 

“I rear-ended... a tank,” Illya repeats. Slowly, questioningly. Gaby sits across the table from him. She shrugs. “Or you reversed into a Trabi.”

There’s a mischievous glimmer in her eyes and Illya senses that he’s somehow missing the joke. He pretends to mull over this latter option. “How would that even happen?”

Gaby’s eyes widen in feigned shock. “You mean to tell me, Mr. Architect, that you _don’t_ have the resources to commandeer a tank?”

Illya rolls his eyes, but the corners of his lips betray him. They sit alone in the dark dining car, sharing bread rolls and butter and sipping water out of wine glasses. It is all they had managed to find, but it is more than enough, Illya thinks, if it means being here with the mechanic.

“So, suppose I do rear-end a tank,” he concedes. “It was dark, it was late, whatever. Then what?”

“You pulled into my garage. And waited. I was the first mechanic to arrive that morning.”

“You did not want to help me,” Illya says, smiling. “You claimed to be too busy, but I offered to pay you double—”

“And said you didn’t care how long the repairs would take. Which was _good_ , because I fully intended on making you wait.”

“I wonder, Gaby, how you _ever_ managed to win me over.”

He smirks when she straightens, indignant. “Win _you_ over? _You_ are supposed to be wooing _me_.”

“Maybe so, but you were very stubborn. You did not treat your customer well,” he teases. “So what changed?”

The mechanic hums, decides to play along. “To begin with, _you_ were a bad customer, Illya. Always showing up unannounced and critiquing my work. I might have yelled at you a few times to leave me alone. And one day, you finally did.”

Illya watches, mesmerized, as Gaby’s eyes soften. Her gaze is trained somewhere over his shoulder as she continues on. “For one week, you did not come by the garage at all. It was _perfect_ , at first, but then I started to realize—”

“That you missed me.”

She huffs, shakes her head. “That I had gotten _used_ to you.”

“Ah,” Illya remarks, smug. “Maybe I realize that I _missed_ you too and so I come back. To ask you to dinner. I was not going to take ‘no’ for an answer.”

“But I beat you to it.”

He hums in approval. He rather likes the idea of Gaby taking the lead.

“The first date was a disaster,” she decides, “but it got better after that. Two years later, you proposed, and here we are now.”

“Here we are now,” he agrees, returning her smile. “But you leave out one detail.”

“Oh?”

“Why I asked for this assignment. To build resort by the Black Sea.”

Illya falters, unsure as to how or even _whether_ to proceed. But one look at the mechanic is all he needs.

It is all he will ever need.

“I thought about something you said, Gaby, before. I know it couldn’t make up for what had happened, for what I had done, but I would want to have found work outside of the Wall for you. I—I had been following orders, but you showed me… you showed me.”

Illya takes a deep breath, blurs the line he tiptoes across. “I no longer believe in my work like I use to, but I would have done, _will do_ anything to be with you.”

“For our cover,” he adds after a moment’s hesitation.

Gaby smiles warmly, sleepily at him. She can never be allowed to know just how much truth and how much _danger_ are contained in his words.

Illya checks his watch, if only to give him something to do.

“It is late.”

The mechanic nods and he gently guides her back to their compartment. He waits to turn out the light while she crawls under the covers.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” He asks, more careful of his wording this time around. He will let Gaby determine any possible shades of meaning.

“You’ve already done it,” she yawns. “Good night, Illya.”

“Good night, Gaby.”

Darkness, deep and full, envelops them once more, hiding the soft, warm smile on the Russian’s face.

 

* * *

 

**Thursday, June 13, 1963**

Gaby shares a secretive smile with Illya as they enter the dining car. The attendants are frowning at the remnants of last night’s rendezvous.

They are among the first to arrive for breakfast and Gaby eases into the relative quiet around her. It is peaceful, sun shining, a fresh start before them. She stares intently at her partner—or what little she can see of him behind his newspaper.

“Would you like to read it after?” He asks dryly, eyes never lifting from the page.

“There’s no need. I’ve already got the gist of it.”

 _That_ gets his attention. Illya folds down the paper. “You read Cyrillic?”

“Enough to stagger my way through a technical manual.”

“You learned this in school? What about speaking?” There’s an urgency, a _longing_ in his voice that pierces through her. She shakes her head.

“I was 12 when they made Russian compulsory. We learned reading, writing, grammar… holding conversations was never the goal.”

“Then I will teach you.”

Gaby raises an eyebrow at his determination. “I’d like to see you try, _tovarisch_.” She grins when he winces at her. He sighs.

“We will work on it.”

Soon after, the pair are disembarking at the _Milano Centrale_ train station. Gaby soaks in the hustle and bustle, ears buzzing with strange languages and dialects.

She and Illya will catch an intercity train. In three more hours, they will finally arrive in the Eternal City.

Her soul aches with sudden wanderlust.

Gaby has never been outside of Germany and the possibilities stretch endlessly before her, but just out of her reach.

As if reading her thoughts, Illya slows his steps. “We could get on the train now,” he says. “ _Or_ , we could go look around the city, if you would prefer?”

The mechanic takes hold of his wrist, turns it to look at his watch. “It _is_ only eight in the morning...”

The Russian smiles and leads her out of the train station.  “Where would you like to go?”

“Everywhere,” she responds. “But I’m afraid we don’t have time.”

They step out into the bright sunlight and Gaby has to squint to look up at him. She slips her sunglasses on while Illya hails a taxi.

“Perhaps not,” he says. Cryptic, _smug_ even. “What if I told you I could show you all of Milan—as it is now and in the past and as it is at _night—_ all before lunchtime?”

Gaby appraises the Russian skeptically. He’s covering his smile and for the life of her, she can’t decide if he’s being serious.

It seems impossible.

But it _is_ Illya.

The mechanic hums, considering. “I would demand you prove it to me.”

The cab pulls up beside them and Illya mutters indistinctly to the driver. He grins at Gaby and holds the door open for her.

“Then I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where could Illya possibly be taking Gaby? The answer will be revealed when I post the next chapter in a couple of days. I would love to hear your guesses, if you have any. :)
> 
> Now, onto our regularly scheduled programming...
> 
> The Sword of Damocles is a myth in which Damocles, a courtier of Dionysus, wishes to enjoy the good fortunes of royalty. He is allowed to switch places with the king and when he takes to the throne, finds a heavy sword hanging above his head… held up only by a single horse hair. Damocles, realizing that “with great power comes great responsibility” (or great risk and great reward), begs to return to his normal station.
> 
> The Berlin Wall actually went through four different incarnations. During the time of Illya’s architect cover, they would have been making improvements to the wire fencing, in addition to the concrete block wall.
> 
> The Red Army (which became the Soviet Army starting in 1946) has a notorious and sordid history during the Battle of Berlin. I won’t recount the horrors here, but it was a type of revenge fantasy on the Germans and their seeming prosperity. What I would like to share though is that the Red Army did, in fact, take steps to repair some of the damages they had caused. Local Germans were placed in charge of each city block and were responsible for organizing the clean-up efforts (transportation was inoperative, sewers were contaminating water supplies, etc). Colonel-General Nikolai Berzarin initiated Red Army soup kitchens to feed German civilians and soldiers.
> 
> The Germans had a very deliberate and truly horrifying policy of maltreatment when it came to Soviet prisoner of war, who they deemed subhuman. An estimated 57% of these POWs were killed, at a mortality rate of 1% a day. Next to the Rwandan genocide, this could be seen as “the most concentrated mass killing in human history… eclipsing the most exterminatory months of the Jewish Holocaust.”
> 
> Gaby would have learned Russian in school. In 1951, it became a compulsory language, and, as mentioned in the story, she would have learned to read and write Cyrillic. The focus would have been on technical writing. Basic speaking proficiency would have been expected, but full, conversational fluency was never the objective. So it is perfectly plausible for Illya to be teaching her Russian. :)


	9. The Forget-Me-Nots of the Angels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya makes good on a promise. <3
> 
> Chapter title from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's "Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go! This one is pure Gallya fluff and told entirely from Illya's POV. I think it might be my favorite chapter so far. :) Research notes are at the bottom. As always, thank you so much for reading and please, please keep sharing your comments!

**Thursday, June 13, 1963**

The mechanic slows to a halt beside him, eyes wide with curious, cautious awe. She marvels at the ionic columns, the copper dome, the seeming marriage of an ancient temple and a basilica.

Illya frowns. _Were domes a feature of classical architecture? Or is this neoclassical?_ He would need to find out before he met Uncle Rudi.

“ _Civico Planetario Ulrico Hoepli,_ ” Gaby reads. Illya’s lips quirk into a smile. Her Italian is better than her Russian, at least, but not by much. She turns her gaze to him, an unspoken question in her dark eyes: _what is this place?_

In response, Illya tucks her closer against his side and leads her up the stone steps.

His thundering pulse is instantly soothed when they enter. Gaby gasps audibly, her slim fingers clutches his arm a little tighter. “It’s a planetarium,” she breathes.

Illya looks at her, surprised. “You are familiar with this?”

“My father took me to the one in Jena. It was my last birthday with him before he… before the war ended.”

Gaby clears her throat, turns her attention to a less charged subject. She spins in a slow circle, gaze trailing wonderstruck at the engravings around the base of the dome. “Is that—”

“The Milan skyline, yes. Exactly as it would have been in 1930.”

The mechanic hums. She nods slowly and Illya thrills at the smile she gives him. Thrills that _he_ could be the cause of it. “All of the city in the past, in the present,” she motions to the celestial vault projection, “and at night. _Impressive_.”

Illya’s spirits soar with the compliment. A new confidence marks his gait, his voice, his posture as they make a leisurely loop around the atrium. He murmurs in Gaby’s ear, pointing out the Duomo, Galleria, La Scala opera house, and the handful of other landmarks he recognizes.

“When were you last in Milan?”

A crease appears between his brows. “Three, four years ago, I think. I could not stay long, so I decided to come here, to the planetarium. It would be considered culturally… edifying, so it was good way, _respectable_ way for KGB agent to pass the time.”

“Is that the _only_ reason you went, Illya? To be respectable? _Or,_ ” she grins, _sotto voce_ , “did you actually _want_ to come here?”

He huffs lightly. “You are not the only one who looks up at the stars and dreams.”

 _Of all the ridiculous things he could have said…_ but Gaby simply tilts her head to the side, eyes sparkling with mischief. “What makes _you_ so sure of that?”

“I can see it in your eyes. They have,” he pauses, “far-away quality. Like you are remembering. Or imagining.” Illya looks down at the mechanic, smug. “ _You_ , Gaby Teller, are a dreamer.”

“And what does that make you?”

“Correct. Like always.” His lips twitch into a smile as Gaby shakes her head, studies him intently. _What does she see in him?_ He wonders.

“I think you are a romantic,” she says. He gives a token scoff, but he’s not going to deny it. The mechanic nods, as if his silence confirms her theory. “It suits you.”

She walks off before he has a chance to respond or even process her words. Tongue-tied and cheeks glowing, the Russian quickly chases after her.

He rejoins Gaby, watches her inspect the Zeiss Model II. He can almost feel her desire to pull it apart and piece it back together again. The image burns into his memory... the small German mechanic setting the universe in motion, teaching all the stars to shine.

“It looks like an ant, doesn’t it?” She grins at him over her shoulder. “I thought maybe seeing it as an adult might change my opinion, but I guess not.”

Gaby straightens and twirls around to face him. He recognizes it as soon as he sees it. _She’s up to something_. It burns clearly in her eyes, plays on her lips.

He patiently, if nervously, awaits his next test.

As the mechanic sidles ever closer to him, Illya is finding it more and more difficult to concentrate. She threads her arm through his—the second time, Illya notes, that she’s done so without any prompting.

Her free hand sweeps grandly at the artificial sky. “Now that you’ve taken me on a brief tour—”

“Abridged,” he huffs.

“ _Abridged_ tour of the city… why not show me around the heavens?”

Illya chuckles. “You are getting very spoiled.”

The mechanic dismisses his comment with a flick of her hair and an imperious wave of her hand. “Isn’t that what fiancés are supposed to do? Give their beloved the moon and the stars and all that?”

He hesitates: careful, hopeful.

“Are you my beloved?”

“Wouldn’t _you_ say so?”

Illya nods because, what is there left to say? She may not have given him a straight answer, but her eyes are soft and her thumb is stroking absent-minded circles where her hand is a warm, comfortable weight on his arm. How quickly that touch has become familiar to him.

“As Cowboy said, you are the _star_ of this show,” he says, grinning.

Illya is rewarded by a dramatic rolling of her eyes. “Well then, _dearest_ ,” she says, prompting, “while the night is still young.”

 _Dearest_.

Illya’s soul hums with the word, blood singing with the sound of his newfound worthiness. “Of course… _darling_.” It is honey on his lips, strange and intoxicating, but yet feels so natural and right to say.

He works to steady his breathing, slow the triumphant victory lap of his pulse. He scans the dome above him. _There_.

“You like swans, yes? That group of seven stars becomes the constellation, Cygnus.”

He moves to stand behind her, one hand on her shoulder, the other around her opposite wrist. It is a new touch, a new intimacy, and Illya revels in the quickening of her pulse beneath his fingers.

He lazily guides her hand, tracing the swan’s outline. “Cygnus is said to be the entrance to the sky-world, on the path that all departed souls must travel.” Gaby nods with feigned solemnity.

Illya reluctantly releases the mechanic when she twists to face him again. He isn’t entirely certain, but he doesn’t think her face looked this flushed a moment ago.

“Is this what they teach you in the KGB?” Her voice is slightly breathy, a shade higher than normal. “Star-gazing?”

“My father,” he says, before he can stop himself. “He gave me telescope when I was nine.”

 _What is this woman doing to him?_ Illya _never_ talks about his family and, yet, the words had slipped out so easily...

“We couldn’t afford one,” Gaby admits, embarrassment masquerading as indifference, “so my father—the mechanic, not the professor—and I built one. Together. He was the one who taught me the constellations.”

Illya shakes his head slightly, a small smile on his face. _Of course_ Gaby would be the type to create a telescope from scratch.

“Dobsonian?”

“Reflecting.”

The pride fades from her voice, replaced with something quietly earnest. “When Udo left, I had no idea where he had gone or when he’d be coming back. But I used to look up at night and…”

Gaby shrugs, eloquent in silence.

“The stars are the same.” Illya breathes through the knots forming in his chest. “I know what you mean.”

He has spent his own share of nights seeking comfort in a common sky. The stars shining over him in Moscow were also the ones shining over his father in Siberia.

The mechanic nods and blinks away the wistfulness. “I guess that’s why they call them the ‘forget-me-nots of the angels’. Because of what—or _who—_ they remind us of.”

She arches an eyebrow at him. “The Germans were the _first_ to call those flowers by that name, you know.”

 _“Really?”_ He crosses his arms, covers the smile that threatens to ruin his aloof act.

“Yes,” Gaby huffs. “ _Vergissmeinnicht._ There’s even a whole story behind it.”

“I would like to hear it.”

“One condition. You have to tell me a story in return.”

Illya hums, mulls the terms over in his head. “Okay,” he says finally.

“Okay,” she repeats. There’s a note of surprise, uncertainty even in her voice. Gaby clears her throat. “I think you should be sitting down for this.”

Illya complies, grabs the Thonet chair nearest to him. He is still an inch or so taller than the mechanic—not that it matters much when her presence seems to miniaturize everything around them.

Gaby takes a deep breath and takes to her makeshift stage. “Once upon a time,” she begins and the corners of his lips immediately twitch upwards.

 _“What?”_ She snaps.

Illya immediately schools his expression to a much more serious one. Or as serious as he is able to manage. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Please continue.”

The mechanic eyes him warily and starts over. “There _once_ was a young man and woman. Is that better?”

“Considerably.”

“And as you have probably guessed, they were lovers.”

Illya nods. “Were they engaged?”

“Yes, yes,” she huffs, distracted. “It was the night before their wedding.”

He tuts sympathetically. “That does not bode well for them.”

“It’s not going to bode well for _you_ either.” Illya holds up his hands, placating, and tries to exude an aura of meek obedience.

“Now, the young couple were walking along the banks of the river—the _Danube_ River,” she adds, off his look.

“Thank you for clarifying,” he grins. Illya hums, pretends to be deep in thought. “They were walking on the river bank? That does not sound safe.”

“If it were _safe_ do you think they would be called forget-me-nots?” Her glare could shred him to ribbons if he isn’t careful.

“So the man and the woman are walking on the river bank,” he says, smoothing things over, “then what happens? They find the flowers?”

“Yes, growing right along the water’s edge. The woman sighed,” Gaby pauses to demonstrate and Illya’s breath hitches. “Sighed that such a lovely flower would get swept away by the current. So her fiancé leapt over the side of the river bank—which was very steep—and climbed down to where it grew.”

“I can see no way that this could go wrong.” The mechanic pointedly ignores his input.

“While she watched from above him, the man grabbed the plant with both hands and pulled. The stem _broke_ and he fell backwards into the water. His last act was to toss the flowers onto the bank and cry out ‘forget me not!’ before being swept away.”

Gaby bristles at the Russian’s sudden recalcitrance. _“Well?”_ She prompts him. He shrugs.

“The flowers represent lost love then?”

She shakes her head vigorously. “The love isn’t _lost_ , Illya. That’s the whole point. It _lasts_ despite separation, despite challenges. Even despite death.”

“Ah,” he replies. Now _that_ is something he can get behind. A love that overcomes the odds. He will tuck the image of blue flowers and starlight and fiancées in a sacred corner of his mind, like petals pressed in books.

Illya smiles at Gaby’s dreamy-eyed reverie. Perhaps the German woman is a romantic after all.

“Would you have gotten them for me?” She asks suddenly. “The flowers. Would you have gotten them for me if I asked?”

 _Yes,_ he wishes to say. _Anything you wanted_. “Maybe if you asked nicely.” He shrugs. “I would be much smarter about it though.”

Gaby tugs on his arm, extends it to its full length. She gives him a teasing grin. “You wouldn’t have had to climb down the banks at all. All you’d need to do is reach.”

The Russian smiles in spite of himself. “I would reach to lower _you_ down and then to lift you back up again. Don’t worry,” he adds hastily, “I would not let anything happen to you.”

The mechanic huffs. “You would make me get my own flowers?”

“You are your own woman, aren’t you?” He smirks as her indignation settles into silent irritation. She can’t argue with him there.

“It does not matter though. I would get the flowers for you before you could even ask. But come,” he says, “I promised you a story.”

Illya sets his hands on Gaby’s waist and gently pulls her towards him. He turns her slightly. She is standing between his legs—it would take only the slightest movement on his part to have her curled up in his lap. He breathes deeply and resists _that_ particular temptation.

He keeps one hand on her waist, while the other points to the constellation above them. “Have you heard of the _Zorya_?”

Gaby’s ponytail brushes against his cheek, his neck and Illya catches a whisper of her perfume. He blinks hard, tries to maintain his focus. “They are sisters. Goddesses who guard _Simargl_.”

“ _Simargl?”_

“The doomsday hound. He is a great winged wolf, chained to Polaris.” Illya points to the North Star above them. “Now, if this chain were to break, then Simargl will destroy the universe.”

“What will he do?”

“Eat Ursa Minor.” He braces himself for the full brunt of Gaby’s skepticism. “It is true,” he assures her.

She does not look convinced.

“The _Zorya_ take turns watching _Simargl_ and they are _also_ the ones who open and close the gates each day so that the Sun can make his journey. _Zorya Utrennyaya_ is the Morning Star and _Zorya Vechernyaya_ is the—”

“Evening Star.”

Illya hums, pleased. “Now,  _Zorya Utrennyaya_ is married to _Perun—_ he is like your Thor—and she accompanies him into battle, where she uses her magic veil to protect her favorite warriors.”

“Like you?”

“Yes,” he says, returning her smile. “Just like me.”

Gaby nods. After a moment she decides, “I like her.”

Illya’s face softens. “Me too.”

The mechanic studies Ursa Minor more closely now, as if straining for a glimpse of _Simargl_ and the _Zorya_. Illya watches _her_ with the same reverence and wonder:

His Morning Star, crowned with the forget-me-nots of the angels. She is the one who chases away the darkness, the one who holds the universe together with stubbornness and a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gaby and Illya visit the Ulrico Hoepli Planetarium (also known as the Civic Planetarium of Milan) which was built in 1930. Ulrico Hoepli was a Swiss editor who moved to Milan in 1870 and later founded his own publishing house. The fog would often obscure the night sky so he decided to donate a planetarium to the city as an alternative way to see the stars. When Gaby and Illya would have visited, the planetarium would have been using a Zeiss model II optical-mechanical instrument (it was upgraded in 1968 to a model IV).
> 
> The Zeiss model II was the first planetarium instrument to have the dumbbell or ‘ant’ shape to it and was first used in Jena, Germany in 1926. That particular planetarium is the world’s oldest continuously operating planetarium and was located in the former GDR (East Germany).
> 
> The Zorya are part of Slavic mythology and in some accounts, both sisters are virgins. I prefer the account as presented in the story, with Zorya Utrennyaya being a type of warrior goddess who goes into battle with her husband. More fitting for a Gallya story I think. :)
> 
> Perun is the war and lightning god whose most deadly weapon is… golden apples (which we could now consider as ball lightning). I’m sure Gaby gave Illya plenty of grief over that...
> 
> The forget-me-not flowers have a variety of meaning and, again, all seem perfect for Gaby and Illya. They include: “true and undying love, remembrance during partners or after death, a connection that lasts through time, fidelity and loyalty in a relationship, despite separation or other challenges, reminders of your favorite memories or time together with another person, growing affection between two people.” The flowers also have a history as a symbol of the German freemasons—as a sign of charity and as an act of subversion against the Nazis. The veracity of this has been contested, but I find it fascinating.
> 
> Cygnus is the swan constellation and is located on the Milky Way which is seen as a path to the sky-world/heaven. Swans have a long-held association with death, interestingly enough, as in swan songs (the myths that swans are silent up until the moments before they die) and in their role as soul-carriers… so the deceased might be buried with swan feathers. Super interesting to read about.
> 
> Lines from the poem from which the chapter title is taken...  
> "Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,  
> Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels."


	10. Must We Dream Our Dreams And Have Them Too?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaby and Illya dream, Victoria and Rudi scheme, and Solo worries about his team.
> 
> Chapter Title taken from the poem "Questions of Travel" by Elizabeth Bishop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap for Part One! From the bottom of my heart, thank you to all of you for reading and for all the love and support and encouragement you've given me. It means the absolute world to me and I am so grateful and honored to be a part of this fandom family. <3
> 
> I'm going to be taking a short, but not indefinite, break before starting Part Two to regroup and maybe work on some other ideas I've got in mind... but don't worry, I'll be back soon. :) Please feel free to subscribe to the series or to me as a creator in the meantime and never miss an update! 
> 
> If you have any requests for certain POVs during a particular scene/moment or if there's anything in particular you would like me to focus on moving forward, please let me know! I'm open to suggestions. :)
> 
> As always, research notes are at the bottom. I did make a slight change to Gaby and Illya's fight in Chapter 8. I just added a couple lines of dialogue and felt compelled to point it out here.
> 
> Your comments warm my heart and keep me motivated, so please, please, PLEASE feel free to share your thoughts on this chapter or on Part One as a whole. I'd love to hear from you. :)

 

**Thursday, June 13, 1963**

He promises her gelato, but _first_ , he needs to make a telephone call.

Illya speaks in hushed, flat tones, but a few words still carry over to her on the slight breeze. It is strange hearing the Russian speak in his mother tongue.

 _Strange_ , but not entirely unpleasant.

Maybe it’s the languid glow of the Italian sunshine, the faint strains of music _promising_ her a good time, or, maybe, it’s the man himself—stooped slightly in the phone booth, casting apologetic glances her way.

Whatever it is, the effect is not lost on the mechanic.

Gaby locks eyes with Illya and starts to edge away from him, watching as his expression morphs from confused to concerned to irritated. He motions to her: _wait._ But the mechanic merely smiles sweetly and continues to test her boundaries.

The Russian huffs in disapproval, but instantaneously, he straightens, blank-faced: a soldier snapping to attention as his superior speaks.

Gaby sees her opportunity and quietly, giddily slips away.

The street performers strike up a new tune and the mechanic can’t stop her carefree grin from spreading. She’s never heard anything quite like it, and, instinctively, her body chases the give and take of the melody and settles into its rhythms.

A young man strides up to her and pulls her against him. A roguish wink and a flick of the wrist sets her reeling in more ways than one. “It’s no fun dancing by yourself, _signorina_. You need a partner.”

Her partner is a confident leader and Gaby is a quick learner.

Soon, a small crowd is gathering to watch and shout encouragement, the pair’s chemistry and skill together readily apparent.

To the mechanic’s pulse-pounding chagrin, however, Illya’s scowling, silent form is among the onlookers. He looks like he’s barely managing to restrain himself.

A cacophony of polite applause and catcalls ends the whole impromptu affair, and quicker than she can blink, the Russian’s hand is on her shoulder and steering her away. “Dearest,” he rumbles. It is a warning shot and she knows it.

Gaby’s dance partner, however, won’t be so easily deterred. He sidles up to them and keeps pace with their steps.

“Did you enjoy the song, _signorina_? It is an old Milanese classic. _Porta Romana Bella_ ,” he announces. Gaby wills the Russian to a stop.

“It was lovely,” she demures, fully aware that she’s playing with fire. “But I’m afraid I didn’t understand any of it.”

She arches an eyebrow: an invitation. The Italian grins graciously.

“It is about a prisoner who comes to a very important conclusion… that a man has three things at the bottom of his heart: his youth, his mother, and his first love.”

Gaby nods, preemptively doubles the weight of Illya’s hand. She feels the sudden rigidity in his fingers, knows the tapping can’t be far behind.

Her dance partner smirks.

“Now that his youth is gone and his mother is dead, the man is left _pining_ after his first love like a,” he winks, motions to the Russian, “well, like _that_.”

Gaby forces a laugh and strategically positions herself between the two men. Sensing blood, the crowd has started to press in again. The mechanic hooks her arm in Illya’s and _pushes_ more than pulls him along.

“Thank you for the dance,” she mutters.

“Anytime.”

His darkened eyes and smooth smile make Gaby’s heart flutter. She can’t say if it’s for the Italian _lothario_ or for her Russian partner’s burgeoning jealousy.

Either way, she’s in trouble.

Once out of the danger zone, Illya jams the mechanic closer to his side and marches her away like he would a criminal or child. He’s not letting her out of his sight again.

He breaks his silence only to order their gelato and doesn’t relinquish his grip until they are seated at a secluded cafe table.

She is quick to note that there are no musicians and _no_ men whatsoever near them.

“You should not have done that,” he scolds. “It was bad idea. I had to cut call with my superior short to go find you.”

Even though she hadn’t gone far, the guilt still twinges at Gaby’s stomach. Her words are low, cautious. “Will you get in trouble?”

“I will worry about that later,” he says, but she doesn’t miss the flexing of his fingers or how he’s avoiding her eyes.

Gaby nods and they eat their gelato in silence.

She tries her best to appear repentant, but her composure falters with the first bite. The lemony ice is so smooth and so blissfully _refreshing_ that even Illya manages a small smile while watching her.

When she feels it is safe to do so, the mechanic begins to test the waters.“Was it the dancing that bothered you or was it the partner?”

“You disappeared,” he points out, “but... both. He was overly forward and the dancing was—”

“Indecent?”

“A bad idea,” he repeats, glaring half-heartedly at her smirk. “The mission is too important for such distractions.”

A light scoff from Gaby and an expressive sweep of her hand. “And all of this today?”

“Part of our cover,” he insists. “It is good for us to have memories like these, stories to share later with Uncle Rudi.”

“You’re saying you _wouldn’t_ be wooing me like this otherwise?” The mechanic’s tone may be light, but her heart is thundering with anticipation.

The Russian rolls his eyes. “I’m sure you already know the answer.”

_But I want to hear you say it._

“So just because you have to then.”

He sighs. “And because I want to. I would be poor partner to deny you such things and even worse fiancé. And I am _not_ ,” he clarifies when Gaby can’t hide her smile, “ _wooing_ you. There’s no need. We are already engaged.”

She huffs. “I don’t think a good fiancé would think like that. I don’t think _you_ would either.”

“Finish your gelato,” he growls. “We have one more stop after this.”

“Just one?”

A triumphant smile rides on her lips when he glowers at her. She takes her last bite and moves to dispose of their empty cups.

When Gaby returns, she feels an inexplicable urge to drape herself over the Russian’s shoulders. She crosses her arms instead, looks down her nose at his still seated form. “I’m ready to be wooed now, if you’re quite finished.”

Illya doesn’t _quite_ succeed in scowling when Gaby takes his arm in both hands and offers him a smile.

 

* * *

 

“Victoria, look at this.”

She doesn’t back down when the telegram is shoved in her face. It takes one icy sweep of her blue eyes before the German realizes the error of his ways.

The offending arm hastily retreats to its owner’s side.

 _Smart man_.

Victoria holds her hand out and Rudi obliges with much more ceremony and caution. She reads the message, a mocking sliver of a smile on her face.“So little Gaby is all grown up. And with a Russian _fiancé_ no less!”

She turns to the German man. “Shall we go tell Udo the happy news?”

“You think she’s coming to look for him?”

Her shoulders rise and fall gracefully. “I don’t think she’s here to ask for your blessing.”

“For all the girl knows, Victoria, her father abandoned her years ago.”

“Well, he certainly wasn’t the _only_ one,” she says pointedly. “Though I dare say Italy has been much more agreeable to you.”

Rudi shrugs, nonplussed. He had left the Iron Curtain with no more baggage (physical or familial) than would be of use to him and had never looked back since. And that’s what the English woman likes most about him—‘True North’ on his moral compass only ever points towards self-preservation.

It makes him easy to control.

Rudolph Von Trulsch may be a dangerously complex figure, deceptively and often _devastatingly_ unassuming, but Victoria has him (like all the men in her life) squarely pegged.

He had been among her first acquisitions when her father-in-law passed away three years ago. The old man had the foresight to entrust her and not his son with both cause and company. In doing so, he had opened Victoria’s eyes to a new world order.

Sergio Vinciguerra was the gatekeeper to this hellish heaven she now calls home. Victoria will bless his memory, burn the world in his name for all the advantages he’s given her. She will play to her husband’s ego, too, but all will know that this is unequivocally _her_ empire.

She is its savior, its queen, and its guardian and she intends to keep it that way.

Victoria returns her attention to Rudi, fixes him with a cool stare. “Nearly two decades of intermittent postcards and she’s running _straight_ to your arms—a secret lover in tow.”

“He’s using her. That much should be obvious.”

“Or she’s using _him_.” Victoria scoffs at Rudi’s surprised glance. He _really_ should know better by now. “Either way, we’re going to find out.”

“I can make the arrangements, if you’d like.”

A thin smile and almost mocking pat of the German’s hand. “Save that for the grand finale, maestro.”

Her mind races on, militant in its beauty: a clever, colorful orchestration of contingencies and cruelty. “I’ll need her description—a picture if you have one—and the name of their hotel. Two men ought to be enough for now, don’t you think?”

The question is rhetorical, but she nods to herself anyway.

A mugging, yes. That should do the trick.

Something to test the Russian, discover the extent of his training (she’d be shamefully naive to think he has none).

Something to test the _girl_ as well.

But whether little Gaby turns out clean or not, Victoria has a keen eye for talent. Perhaps the girl could be brought in, join ranks with her uncle.

“Your niece is a mechanic, isn’t she?”

“You want her to help her father. It’s certainly plausible, but when do you plan on telling her?”

“Not until we get some more answers. Best case scenario, we can have her assist the professor. If not, I imagine there are _other_ uses for her.”

As she expects, Rudi cottons on immediately. “We leave Gaby in the dark for now, but _Udo_ can know we have her. It’s a strong motivator.”

The German pauses, leeringly hopeful. “And… at the end of all this?”

“Depending on how things go tonight, Rudi, I’ll let you have all the fun you want with them: father, daughter, _and_ fiancé.”

“It will be my pleasure.”

If Victoria were a very different kind of woman, she would find his excitement chilling. But being who she is—and unapologetically so—she returns his smile in equal measure.

“But let’s try it my way first, shall we?”

 

* * *

 

The La Scala opera house is imposing without being ostentatious… at least it is from the outside. Once Gaby walks through those doors, however, she is nearly swallowed whole by the scale and splendor surrounding her.

She and Illya wander through the attached museum and library at their own pace: Gaby with impatient and irrepressible vigor and the Russian with far more care. He proceeds methodically, hell-bent on reading and inspecting _everything_.

They check on each other every now and then—an amused look here, a sheepish grin there—and gradually reunite for the main attraction.

The mechanic races down a carpeted aisle to stand before the empty stage. She twirls to take in the endless sea of plush chairs, the towering, _staggering_ levels of seating above her. Dwarfed in this magnificent space, she feels the nostalgia nestle closer and closer to her heart.

“It reminds me of the Berlin State Opera.”

Illya purses his lips, nods. _“Deutsche Staatsoper Berlin._ You have been before?”

“Have _you_?”

He smiles at her incredulousness. “Once. I was part of security detail for the Russian ambassador. We saw _The Sleeping Beauty_ maybe... six years ago.”

Gaby’s mouth has suddenly gone very, _very_ dry. “Tell me about the princess. Not Aurora, the one who dances with the bluebird.”

“Princess Florine? She was blonde,” Illya recalls, frowns slightly. “Green eyes—”

“Bandage on her left knee, looked like she had stepped straight out of a music box.”

Now Illya is the one to look startled. “You were there?”

“I was  _in_ it. Just not on the night that you saw.” There’s relief and something dangerously close to disappointment at this revelation. “My father— _foster_ father—collapsed at the garage. I had to be there. With him.”

Gaby exhales unsteadily. “I finished out the rest of the show’s run, left the company right after.” And then, very quietly, “I had just made first soloist.”

“Your Florine must have been very beautiful,” Illya ventures. “I am sorry to have missed it.”

 _Me too_ , she wants to say, but can’t get the words out. Instead, she gives him a sad, grateful smile. “What do you want to be, Illya? After?”

She won’t ask him what he would be if things were different. How could she? At least this way, the Russian gets to make a choice… or pretend that he has one.

Her heart breaks for the puzzled, pitying expression on his face. “ _After?_ I haven’t thought much about it.”

“I think you could be a fashion designer,” she volunteers. Gaby will create a future for him even if _he_ won’t. She shrugs. “You seem to have good taste in clothes, or at least a _very_ strong opinion about them.”

Illya hums in response. A smile—gratifying and genuine—spreads slowly on his face. “My handler was once an opera singer, so _maybe_ I could do that.”

“Become an opera singer?”

“No. A fashion designer, like you said.”

Gaby shrugs. “I think I’ll probably go to America with my father. At least to start.”

Is that _sadness_ she can read in his expression? Whatever it is, it is gone as quickly as it appears.

“I’d like to see the world before I settle down,” she adds hurriedly. “Open a garage somewhere. Maybe even teach ballet.”

“To the other mechanics?” He teases.

Gaby huffs, but plays along. “I’ll let you design the costumes and everything.”

“And how am I going to find you with all this traveling you plan on doing?”

In that moment, it is courage and not common sense that drives her forward. She smirks. “I guess you’ll just have to keep track of me.”

Gaby regrets it as soon as she says it, but there’s a small part of her that leans into the pain, embraces the aching in her chest.

Waverly, of course, is not going to be pleased. She imagines that the _last_ thing he’ll need when the dust clears is for the KGB’s best to be keeping tabs on one of his agents.

But suppose Illya never finds out the truth…

“I look forward to it.”

Gaby doesn’t know whether he means designing the costumes or tracking her whereabouts, but a chill runs down her spine _even_ as something warm and sweet blossoms within her chest.

 

* * *

 

The airport terminal is bustling with activity, but Napoleon doesn’t mind. He is content to read his newspaper in the calm of the storm. He sighs deeply and eases back into his chair.

Though comfortable, he is far from relaxed.

Napoleon parses out snippets of conversations from passersby—French, American, and British accents among the deck crew, of course—and is keenly aware of everyone and everything around him…. _including_ a rather lovely group of stewardesses finding every reason to hang around.

Ever the sportsman, Solo tosses a wink and a lazy smile in their direction. He is rewarded with a few blushes and coy glances, but one young woman surprises him by winking back.

He smirks. His flight may not be for two hours, but he plans on making every second count...

Napoleon will be flying into the new Leonardo Da Vinci airport, but he’s already got a different route in mind for the way back.

He’s heard there’s another airport that is surrounded by a racetrack. Maybe he’ll arrange for Gaby and him—and if all goes well, her father—to fly out from there, potentially pull a few strings so she can see the cars too.

He’s sure Gaby would like it.

Speaking of the mechanic, Solo spares a final, cursory glance at the newspaper. The _Mediolanum_ has mercifully managed to avoid the headlines: there are no accounts of a giant stopping the train with his bare hands or of a tiny German woman staging a coup onboard.

Napoleon glances at his watch with a sigh: Peril and Gaby should have reached Milan by now. For both of their sakes, he hopes the KGB agent is showing her around the city. And the _good_ parts too… not the Stalingrad of Italy or, God forbid, something remotely _educational_.

Not that Solo has anything against learning—quite the opposite in fact—but he believes that the mechanic _should_ be allowed to indulge herself here. He wants her to soak in the sights and the atmosphere without feeling the constant threat of Soviet moderation.

The American will see to it personally that Gaby has a chance to enjoy Rome.

It’s been just over twenty-four hours since Solo last left his partners and he’s burning with curiosity to see how their relationship has developed. He’s curious, too, as to whether his initial impressions have proven to be as prescient as they usually are.

Napoleon realizes with a sudden jolt that he’s almost… looking _forward_ to seeing the pair of them. The mechanic, he can understand, but the Russian?

Call it unfinished business.

He doesn’t trust Peril, doesn’t want to be working with him either, but the man _does_ have a unique sort of entertainment value. He’ll give him that.

But their in-mission Cold War still stands and Napoleon is as doggedly determined to win as he was in the boutique.

Determined _too_ to decode the Russian and perhaps learn a thing or two along the way. And—with a precarious ceasefire between them—Solo has almost free reign to pester and intrude upon the ‘happy couple’ without running the risk of major bodily harm.

He looks up again and locks eyes with the stewardess. She inclines her head and trails off towards the bar while Napoleon sets his newspaper aside.

He can worry about the mission and the mechanic and even Peril later, but, _right now_ , he’s found himself a new objective.

After all, it’s bad form to keep a lady waiting.

 

* * *

 

Time seems to slow and sound seems to warp as the train screeches into the station. The mechanic’s chest tightens and her hands start going numb. A familiar panic begins gripping at her.

Illya must notice something for his hand skims the small of her back. She unconsciously leans into his touch and is startled by how quickly she relaxes.

Gaby shouldn’t feel safe with the Russian and yet she does.

She _shouldn’t_ like the man, either, but somehow she’s finding herself—

The doors open with a hiss and a clang.

Passengers stream around them, embarking and disembarking in equal measure. Gaby takes a long, deep breath to compose herself. Illya’s eyes scan over her like bright blue searchlights, checking and re-checking that she is okay.

Gaby nods at him in silent confirmation.

With the weight of his ring on her finger and the world on her shoulders, Gaby takes the first, cautious step onto the train… and into the future awaiting her on the other side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All aboard to Part Two! 
> 
> 35,000+ words for the first 26 minutes of the film... Give yourself a round of applause, folks, for making it all the way to the end. Again, I couldn't be more grateful to you all. :) 
> 
> And now the last research notes of Part One:
> 
> Porta Romana Bella is a Milanese pop song dating back to the 19th century. The original artist is unknown and the song (and lyrics) have gone through various incarnations and artists over the years. It’s lyrics are in reference to the microcriminalism and “mala” Milanese environments. Solo's Stalingrad of Italy comment later on refers to the Sesto San Giovanni area which was comprised largely of blue-collar workers with anti-fascist ideals and which had a rough and tumble reputation.
> 
> The La Scala Opera House does have a museum/library that would have been around in the 1960s. I don’t know that Illya and Gaby could actually go in to see the stage, but that’s an artistic license I’m willing to take—I’m sure Illya would have found a way for Gaby to see it regardless. :)
> 
> The Berlin State Opera housed the State Opera of East Germany from 1949 to 1990. Though the building was isolated after the Wall was built, it still showcased a diverse repertoire of operas and ballets. I couldn’t find anything on the Berlin Ballet School (which is referenced in the dossiers), so I’m not sure that it actually exists. Gaby is a first soloist, so that puts her two ranks down from the top (behind Principal Character Artist and Principal). Apparently ‘prima’ is a very rare designation and, as such, is not found in every (or even many) ballet companies.
> 
> Oleg’s actor, Misha Kuznetsov, actually did train to become an opera singer before he decided to pursue acting. It was too cool not to include here. :)
> 
> As many of you already know, canonically, Illya becomes a successful and sought after fashion designer in The Return of the Man From UNCLE: The 15 Years Later Affair sequel film that was released in 1983.
> 
> Leonardo Da Vinci Airport opened in 1961, but was used before then for the 1960 Olympics. The Roma Urbe airport (mentioned, but not by name) hosts the Autodromo del Littorio (or “Lictor Racetrack”) that once saw a race between a Caproni Ca.100 plane and an Alfa Romeo 8C 2300 back in 1931. Unsurprisingly, the plane won.
> 
> Though not explicitly stated, Solo is flying out of the Berlin Tegel Airport. The bit about the flight deck crew and their accents is a reference to the fact that during the Cold War, all air traffic through West Germany was restricted to airlines headquartered in the US, the UK, and France (e.g. three of the four Allied powers). Subsequently, all deck crew flying in or out of West Berlin were required to hold British, American, or French passports.
> 
> Princess Florine is a role that, from what I gather, would be appropriate for a first soloist. She is a character from the French fairy tale, the Blue Bird, and dances at Aurora's wedding (both with the Blue Bird and by herself). In short, I am NOT above orchestrating another near miss for Gaby and Illya. :)
> 
> That's all for now, folks!


End file.
